


Certainty and Wildflowers

by mooshkabunny



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, One Shot Collection, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Various points in the game and series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 22,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooshkabunny/pseuds/mooshkabunny
Summary: I figured I should just put them all together: a collection of my old tumblr fics about Sula Adaar, most of them about her and Blackwall throughout Inquisition.
Relationships: Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Female Adaar/Blackwall, Female Adaar/Blackwall | Thom Rainier
Kudos: 11





	1. Princess

**Author's Note:**

> Companion!AU Sula and why she joins up with the Inquisition. Featuring Varric!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Companion!AU

“So why did you join up with the Inquisition?” Blackwall asked her as they set up the camp for the night. He was lighting the fire, while she and Varric set up their tents.

She pursed her lips, thinking about her answer.

“I want to help people. I want to do good, it’s the right thing, right?” she said, finally, and something in her felt warm when Blackwall smiled broadly, pleased by her answer. But Varric tutted.

“There’s gotta be more to it than that, Princess,” she wrinkled her nose at the nickname, already regretting having told Varric anything about her favorite books. “You and Hero both can’t be boring.”

Blackwall frowned at him, but Sula did laugh—it was hard not to laugh when Varric teased her. So she sat on the ground, having just finished tying off her tent, and thought again.

She thought of the Herald, a strong and powerful symbol of hope, and how they carried themselves with such kindness and compassion, and never seemed scared, awkward, or unsure. She thought of how wonderful it would be to be the Herald, to be that certain, that faithful, that kind.

Sula smiled a little, and shrugged. “I wasn’t much of a mercenary, or a guard, really. I don’t really know how to do much, but I want to help. Maybe I can find what I’m good at by helping the Inquisition?”

The two men seemed surprised by her honesty, and looked at her as though she were completely new—not a look she was unused to, being one of the few Tal-Vasoths in the Inquisition (she supposed Iron Bull was Qunari, so there were even fewer.) But still, she felt her cheeks grow warm, and a little exposed. Maybe she had said too much?

“A noble goal,” Blackwall said, finally, smiling at her. “Though I’m sure you’re underestimating yourself.”

Varric shrugged. “Besides, who wants to be a good mercenary, anyway? Now, do you mind, you happen to be very talented at setting up tents, and I am struggling. If you could help me, I’ll exercise my talents of storytelling, and try to think of some hilarious anecdote about knights and ladies for you?”

She may have laughed too giddily and too eagerly, since they both laughed at how quickly she got up to help.


	2. “Do you trust me?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt, one of my more recent ones!

“Do you trust me?” What a question. She’d asked it so often, of all her inner circle, and somehow, she’d earned the trust of all these disparate, desperate people. 

But he never asked it back. How could he, when none of these people even knew his real name? If she turned to him with her big, amber eyes, and that soft, warm smile of hers and told him that she trusted him, when he did not deserve such a gift, he’d turn himself in right then and there. 

Or so he’d like to think. But he knew better. Thom Rainier was a coward, and always had been.

All of that would be much easier to deal with if they weren’t currently absolutely and thoroughly _fucked._

The damned rain in Crestwood mixed with the fog made it impossible to see outside the little hovel hidden in the hills he’d found for them. They thought that after clearing the damn place of the rift in the lake that the weather would have settled into something less supernatural, but rain was rain, and happened anyway, and was just as horrible as when it had been magically influenced. Worse yet, demons and dragons had been the least of their worries here before. Now there were bandits, and Red Templars everywhere, and in searching for Hawke’s damned contact, they’d been split from the others, and the Inquisitor injured by one of the templar bastards. Surrounded now by the templars searching for them, they were stuck, at least until help or a miracle found them. 

Blackwall turned to the Inquisitor, and sucked in a breath. She was breathing shallowly, holding back any indication of her pain, knowing that any wayward sound would have them discovered, but she looked horrible. Her gray face, normally alight with a pinkish undertone, was pale and covered in rain and sweat. She shook all over, and her eyes were glazed. The blood from their battle had washed off in the rain, but he knew her ribs, and maybe her leg were broken. And it was all his fault. He hadn’t protected her. 

He knelt before her, and without thinking much of it, put a hand to her cheek–she was burning, another turn of bad luck. She’d have a fever on top of all this, and that would be the thing to kill her first. He removed his hand, and swore under his breath. He barely noticed that she was looking at him intently now. 

“That was nice,” she said. It was such a bizarre thing to say, he wondered if the fever had already taken hold of her.

“What?” She was injured and unwell, no reason for his heart to speed up. But she offered a weak smile, and his fool stomach flipped.

“Your hand. It was nice,” she swallowed, hard, and looked away, wincing. “Oooff, can’t talk much.”

“Don’t talk at all. Rest, as much as you can,” he said, softly. Somewhere in the back of his head, the old Thom shuddered to think of the punishment he’d endure at the death of the Inquisitor, and his failure to protect her. Much more prominently though, try as he might to deny it, the fear he felt was not for his own life. 

The Inquisitor meant a lot to a lot of people. He meant what he had told her at their arrival to Skyhold. She was a symbol of hope for all the refugees and pilgrims who arrived there–himself included. As fond as he was of Sula Adaar, the sweet, awkward freckled woman, the Herald of Andraste was something to believe in–a righteous cause, protecting the innocents from a world of powerful people who did not care. But she did. 

The world would be lesser without her in it. 

He wouldn’t let her die. He couldn’t.

Blackwall took a moment to remove his gambison, soaked as it was, it was another layer to keep the chill off of her, and laid it across her. Her eyes fluttered to his for a moment, and though she was still focused on breathing through the pain, she watched him far too closely. Guilt quickly filled his heart, and he left her side to peer out the hovel, and analyze the situation. 

They hadn’t been able to run too far from the Red Templars that had overtaken their camp. The attack had surprise and overwhelming numbers as an advantage. In the midst of battle, he recalled hearing Varric wager that they were not just looking for the Inquisitor, but Hawke as well, scrounging through the hillsides of Crestwood, just as they had been, looking for the contact’s hideout. That the templars were still here had to mean that they knew the hideout was nearby, or they had seen Blackwall drag the Inquisitor somewhere around here, after the Behemoth had gotten a lucky swing at her. The others likely went back to Caer Bronach for reinforcements, and hopefully were on their way, but the Inquisitor needed help now, and more than he could offer her. But that Behemoth was still out there, with about 15 other soldiers setting up camp around the area. He could certainly try his hand at taking them all on. It would be the noble way. _It would also be a dead man’s way,_ he could almost hear the real Blackwall laugh. 

Varric had said Hawke mentioned these hills had tunnels of some sort, bandit highways. He’d utilized similar tunnels himself to get out of binds in parts of Orlais. He glanced back towards the inside of the hovel, and considered. 

Stepping over the Inquisitor, he pressed his hands to the walls of the hovel, looking for any hollow sections, or pieces of stone or wood that could be hidden and moveable. With luck, the southern wall budged, just slightly enough. With a bit more back into it, the hidden door moved slowly back, and a pathway was revealed. He resisted the urge to cheer, focusing instead on the next task…

Moving the Inquisitor. 

_Fuck._ He knelt down beside her again, and she looked at him, shivering. His fingers flexed as he tried to come up with the proper way to ask, but the direness of the situation outweighed propriety. She’d understand. He hoped. “Inquisitor, there’s tunnels back there… I think I can get us out of here, but…”

“You have to carry me,” she answered, not nodding, just watching, thinking. “Do you know where it goes?”

He paused. “No. It could lead to more danger. But…”

“It’s the only way,” she looked away, taking the chance to steady herself. For a moment, she looked scared. “I won’t be much help… I might just slow you down. You could,” she steeled herself, trying to push through the pain, “You could leave me, and get help.”

That was completely unacceptable, for a thousand different reasons. Without thinking, he gruffly responded with the one question he thought he’d never ask, “Sula… Do you trust me?”

The answer should have been no, of course not. But of course, instead, her amber eyes looked up at him, and the full weight of her affection for him hit him completely. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, she smiled so fully, even through the pain, and raised a hand as high as she could to grab his arm, and squeeze. 

“Completely,” she whispered. It hurt just as much as he feared to hear it. But the moment of guilt passed quickly as she winced, holding her sides, and looking up to him once more to ask, “What do I need to do?”

He wrapped his arms around her. It was an awkward carry, with her being so tall, and there was no way around her injuries. She swallowed down a yelp, burying her face into the crook of his neck to try and keep silent. It was likely unwise to move her at all, but there was no way that the templars wouldn’t find this hovel soon. As quickly as he could, they were through the door, and swiftly surrounded by darkness. There was only one path ahead, and the walls were narrow enough that he had to walk them sideways. 

Coupled with the darkness, the silence was nearly overwhelming. So he whispered, gently, to soothe and distract her from her body tensing and spasming in his arms. He couldn’t quite think of what to say, so he just said the first thing that came to his mind. 

An old Thom Rainier story. Internally, he cringed, hoping that she wouldn’t be able to decipher anything from it, but how could she? She’d never heard of Thom Rainier before. 

“You know, this reminds me of a mission I was on once… Not quite the Deep Roads, but low hanging caves like this. Felt like the whole ceiling would fall on you.”

She didn’t say much in response, too much in pain, too focused, but he knew she was listening, as she nuzzled closer into him. It was almost intoxicating, to think of better times, and holding her this way, in a better situation. But luckily, there was too much to think about to be distracted by that. 

“Some bastard had asked us to go down there and check it out, and suddenly, we realize the lake all around us is oil, and whatever lives down there didn’t want us down there, and it’s ablaze.”

She stirred, and he tried to adjust her in his arms, fatigue starting to take him. Damn, he could have done this easily when he was younger. “Darkspawn?” she said, and for a moment, he thought he misheard, lost in the story as he was. 

“Er, yeah, probably. Didn’t realize how smart the bastards could be back then,” Blackwall almost thought to stop the story completely, but he laughed, remembering the punchline he’d always matched with it. 

She wouldn’t suspect. It was nothing. And Wardens… Some were paid for their deeds. “We went back to the arsehole who sent us down there and demanded hazard pay.” 

It was dark, but he could feel her smiling against his neck. “You think Cassandra would go for that?”

He barked out a laugh, and they both stilled for a moment, waiting in the dark to make sure no one else heard. But they were alone, and tittered quietly as he moved them further still. 

“Best go through Lady Josephine,” he winked, despite knowing there was no need. She couldn’t see him. “She seems the understanding sort.”

They went on like this for awhile, until he spotted light ahead, and heard voices. He paused, bending down to lay her on the ground and prepare to fight, until the voice made himself known.

“Oh thank the Maker, you both scared me half to death! And you made me go through this blasted cave!” Varric shouted, rushing to their side, joined by Solas, and a healer from Caer Bronach. Blackwall leaned back against the wall, exhausted, but relieved to see them. 

Solas and the healer made short work of Sula, magic attending to her broken bones in a way the small amount of field medicine Thom remembered would never be able to achieve. Her own exhaustion quickly put her to sleep, and when it was time to leave the tunnel, Blackwall carried her again, despite Varric and Solas’s protestations. He was really the only one who could carry her. And, perhaps, he didn’t really want to let her go. 

“You did great work rescuing her like that,” Varric said with a wink, as they settled at their new, safer camp. “Real knight in shining armor moment for you there, Hero.”

He didn’t feel it. It was his fault she’d been injured in the first place. How much more trust could she put in him that he would betray? 

He nodded with a tired smile, and retreated to his tent, eager to sleep. Almost tauntingly, he dreamt only of being the hero she thought him to be.


	3. "I didn’t intend to kiss you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt! A little AU comic where Sula and Blackwall’s first kiss happens earlier. I’ve literally always wanted to write this fic, but I never could get it right. I should note though, I know literally 0 about horseback riding, so sorry for that.

The Hinterlands were a better place to learn to ride, even as far as it was from Haven, and as busy as they always were around these parts, they still found time for lessons.

When they first got the horses from Dennet, the Herald had unconvincingly pretended that she was overjoyed, and enthusiastic about the acquisition. When she was told that she had to ride them as well, to aid in travel, she found any excuse not to. After Dennet’s daughter tried racing her, and the Herald fell flat on her face to the Iron Bull’s great amusement, the rest of her inner circle caught on.

Blackwall knew what it was like to have to learn something nobles found second nature—he remembered the early days after leaving Markham, trying his hand at learning on his own, Chevaliers and minor nobs alike laughing at the idiot Markham boy, until some busty Starkhaven girl took pity on him and taught him (for a very convenient price). It wasn’t a necessary skill, but it was a useful one. When they left the Redcliffe farms, he took the Herald aside and asked if she’d like some pointers. Purely business—she’d have to be among nobles of all sorts, and striking an imposing figure on horseback was a guarantee for quick respect with them. Any additional time spent with the Herald, on a one on one basis? He hadn’t even entertained thought.

Much.

And now, riding lessons were a great activity when the rest of the camp had turned in, and the two of them were still restless.

“You’re still putting too much strain on the reins,” he said, riding up beside her. She was nervous on the horse, and the animal could tell. He took her hands holding its reins, and tried to ease her and the horse both with a smile and kind words. “You don’t need to strangle it. It won’t move unless you want it to.”

“That is plainly untrue,” Sula said, and though she laughed, he could feel her shaking still, though her hands loosened their grip on the reins. “I did not do anything to that horse Senna lent me, and it bucked me off.”

“You don’t have to be afraid. That won’t happen again, not while I’m here.”

He didn’t miss her smile, nor her blush, and he tried very hard not to think about it, even as he involuntarily squeezed her hand, and felt his heart speed up. _Focus,_ he told himself.

“You’ve been doing well besides. We just have to get you actually going faster than a trot, and you’ll have figured the whole thing out.”

She shrugged, but gave moving the horse a try. He let go of her hand (he’d still been holding it, damn it), and moved his own horse back to give her space.

He hadn’t meant to laugh, but she was so stiff as they rode the slowest pace possible, it looked like she’d been turned to stone. “There, you’ve got that! Now… Try… faster?”

She glared at him, “Exactly how much faster do I need to go?”

“Well, the idea is the horse is faster than you walking.”

She sighed, and kicked the horse’s sides gently, like he’d instructed. He laughed again, but was pleased that she was starting to look less terrified as things went smoothly. She kicked again, and the horse picked up its pace again. When they turned back around, she was smiling despite herself.

“Alright… This… This isn’t so bad,” she said, and she laughed a little as she kicked again to canter over, and stopping short of him and his horse. “Not so bad at all!”

“You just can’t be scared. It’s easy enough to direct it—it’s trained to listen. Just remember that, and you won’t fall,” it felt good to help her this way. She was a good student, put in the work, and this was an interaction that felt… More in line with a Grey Warden in the service to the Herald. It prevented too close of quarters. There was a focus that kept them from their penchant for flirting. And he could still admire her from a distance, knowing that he couldn’t flat out stop admiring her. Sitting confidently and calmly on the horse, she did strike the figure of a noble lady, tall, carefree, and lovely. She was an objectively beautiful woman in this way, rather than the sweet, kind, and cautious Sula Adaar, with golden eyes, and freckles, and pink lips and faintly greyish pink cheeks that blushed under his gaze, and spoke low and teasingly dirty jokes in the tavern— _Focus,_ he told himself, remembering that they still had to cover galloping, jumping, evasive action, far too much to start day dreaming about the Herald.

And while he was daydreaming, she’d gotten cocky. “You know, I might not even need more lessons?” she said, laughing, cantering about in a circle in the surrounding area. “I’ve got the basics! That’s probably all there is to it, right?”

“Well, no,” he said, starting to ride closer. “It’s enough to get by, for sure, but if we’re going to be riding these all around, we’ll probably need to cover jumps, fighting from horseback…”

“Jump? That seems easy enough? Ride up to something fast enough and it just knows, right?”

“No, it won’t,” he said, laughing, until he realized she was serious. “Sula, it won’t.”

But she’d already made her first mistake. Already in a canter, she tried to kick the horse to go faster. It did, and she immediately tensed up, and lost the reins. “Shit!” she cried, and he echoed her sentiment, racing after her as the horse began running wild.

The string of curses the two of them shouted as the horse ran and ran and ran further away from the camp echoed off the mountains surrounding them. _We’ll be lucky if no one hears,_ Blackwall thought, filled with dread, as his horse began to close in on the runaway Herald. He couldn’t really blame her though. Once he’d figured out the basics, he had tried the same thing. Unlucky for him, the horse bucked him into the side of a barn. Lucky for the Herald, he managed to grab hold of her horse’s reins, and slow them sufficiently to a trot, before it decided to kick at either of them.

They were both breathing heavy by the time they came to a stop. She looked down at him, cheeks aglow from the exertion and embarrassment, her eyes wide and guilty. “I’m… So sorry.”

He couldn’t take it. He burst out laughing. He laughed so hard, he had to get down from the horse, or he would have fallen from it. She followed, also laughing.

“We’re so far from the camp! Damn it, I shouldn’t have gotten so—Aaah, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said in between her laughter and trying to catch her breath.

He grabbed her shoulder, to lean on, and to assure her that it was quite alright, but something caught, her foot in the horse’s reins perhaps, or him on some slippery rock or log, but they both tumbled forward, and the laughter continued, covered in leaves and mulch.

“This is still better than my first time, believe me,” he said, turning to look at her, and she turned as well, smiling, her mouth open to ask something, but the question died on her lips.

He felt almost stuck in a memory, thinking back to that busty Starkhaven girl, and how easy it had been to fall from his horse, and right into her arms, surrendering to her hungry kisses. Such a thing could happen right now, so easily, and Sula Adaar was just as beautiful a companion as the Starkhaven girl had once been. Perhaps more so. Perhaps that was just the knowledge that he could not and should not kiss the Herald. Blackwall, a noble man, probably would have reminded himself sternly of that knowledge, stood, and prepared their horses for the short ride back to camp, and been done with it.

Sula Adaar had that same hungry look in her eyes, as she looked down at his lips, and bit her own, turning slightly closer, her hand inching ever so slightly his way. When she looked back up from his lips, there was want in her eyes.

Thom Rainier had always been very bad at not doing whatever it was he wanted.

He kissed her. He pulled her close, probably too fast, but when their lips met, she was just as forceful, her hand tangling itself in his hair, her tongue meeting his, her legs wrapping themselves around his, every inch of her wanting him. Instinct drove his hand to the ties of her gambeson, and she moaned as his other hand roamed her thigh, and that’s when noble thoughts returned to Thom Rainier.

 _Focus. She’s the Herald of Andraste. You can’t undress the Herald of Andraste,_ Blackwall thought. He pulled away, and her eyes were still closed when he realized his mistake.

He sat up when she opened her eyes, and bit her lip in confusion. He looked away when she whispered, “Blackwall?”

“Forgive me,” he said, and it felt like the blood pounded angrily all throughout his body, aching to be kissing her again. “I did… I did not intend to kiss you.”

“You don’t have to apologize… I wanted to kiss you,” she laughed, “I don’t think you lured me out here for this, and even if you did, I don’t mind.” That was too much. He could not indulge this.

The Herald of Andraste was a much different caliber of woman than the Starkhaven girl. Both were sweet, decent folk, to be sure, but the Starkhaven girl suffered no slight to her character, no damage to her cause for succumbing to a quick fling with Thom Rainier. Perhaps a bastard, but a stable hand in Starkhaven could expect those. The Herald? Too much was at stake, for him and her. He stood, and walked to the horses, careful not to look at the Herald. “We should head back,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, and without emotion.

“We… Aren’t in any hurry,” she said. She was making this difficult. She sounded sad.

“I should head back. I left some work I have to attend to. Forgive me,” all lies, but what wasn’t? He had to leave her side, that was the only thing that was certain. He mounted his horse, and gave her a slight nod before riding away.

It was an idiotic thing to leave her alone, to not discuss what had just occurred, but he couldn’t face it, not then, not while he still wanted her, not while he could still taste her on his lips. He needed to be alone.

There were no more riding lessons after that.


	4. 'It's just a cut, really'

She wasn’t much of a healer, really, but Sula would be damned if Blackwall didn’t get proper attention.

Utilizing her best impression of Cassandra and Vivienne combined, she commanded them to make camp after Blackwall passed out after a battle. Sera and Dorian complied without complaint, with Sera teasing Blackwall into resting and Dorian trying his best to muster up his limited health magic knowledge. Blackwall, for his part, grumbled the entire time.

“It’s just a cut, really,” he insisted, and Sula glared.

“I had to carry you here.”

That got a bashful look. “Well… I’m fine now,” he was good at stubborn, that was for sure. Sera looked through her potions and poultices, handing Sula what was useful with a sly grin.

“Yeah, bleeding out your side, going white as a ghost, you’re fine,” she said, clicking her tongue. Her face quickly turned to worry though, when she thought Sula had looked away to gather a needle. “Balls you’re fine, Beardy, worrying me.”

“I have something to stop the bleeding, but nothing to close the wound,” Dorian said, coming over with a large book in his hand. She had to wonder if it was the same one he kept at his side, or if somehow it fit in all the little secret pockets and pouches he wore. “We’ll have to sew it.”

“A poultice should suffice,” Blackwall looked wretched. He did know the most about medicine out of the lot of them, but Sula knew from their months traveling together, that he was also opposed to being giving _special treatment._ Apparently that included basic help at staying alive, sidestepping her attempt to block an attack heading his way, trying to block it from her instead. It was a confused move, (and she tried not to think of what it could mean), something she would have done instead of him, with all his years of training. And it got him a gash in his side that wouldn’t close. And her a heart that almost stopped beating.

She bit her lip, and tried commanding again, “Just let me help. I know what to do. Off with the shirt, the gambeson, everything.”

He sighed. He attempted. The groan that escaped him was too much, and she reached for him instead.

“Oh, let me,” she said, undoing the ties to his gambeson as swiftly as possible, trying not to look him in the eye, trying to ignore the heat in her face, the heavy pounding of her heart with his hands near hers, and trying not to think of what would have happened if he hadn’t passed out and kept this quiet for days. When she saw the blood, she flinched, but kept at the work. The wound, once revealed, was fresh and deep, but not infected yet. She bit her lip. “Sera, will you fetch and boil some water. Dorian, if you could do your spell while she does that, I’ll prepare the needle and poultice.”

She turned away to let Dorian take a look, and couldn’t help but hear him tease Blackwall, whose groan could have been from pain or embarrassment. Probably both, “Looks like you’re in the midst of a lover’s spat there, hm?”

She didn’t hear if Blackwall said anything, but she could almost hear him answer in her mind, _It’s not like that… It can’t be like that._

 _You can’t afford to think I’m special._ Those words rang through her, coupled with the image of his red lyrium eyes in the false future, as he rushed off to a hero’s death.

 _I can’t afford it, but like it or not, you are special to me… I can’t lose you,_ she wanted to say, desperately, but it wouldn’t do. And it wouldn’t do to try and get out her sore feelings on a wounded man’s side.

Sera returned with the water, and Sula stopped her for a moment. “Have you done this before?”

Sera considered. “Once or twice, yeah. I’m no medic, but I’ve patched myself and others’ up fine.”

She gave her the heated needle, and some thread. “I… I think I’m still shaken. I… I would make it worse. Would you please?”

Sera looked from Sula to Blackwall, and pulled a face that seemed understanding. “He’s been a right twat about you two, hasn’t he? Yeah, I got it, let me,” she took all the pieces, and walked back to Blackwall’s side.

Sula swallowed, and took a long breath, before hiking over the mountains to find something else—hunting, herb gathering, whatever—to occupy her, while she waited—for him to heal, for her hands to stop shaking, and her mind to stop racing. It was long after sunset when she finally returned, glancing quickly at the others to confirm that Blackwall was resting soundly, and healing fine.

Still, she did not sleep easy.


	5. Comfort Your Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one I wrote ‘cause my game glitched and didn’t have Hawke respond to the Nightmare’s taunts and my heart broke into a thousand pieces.

The Fade was getting to all of them. They all moved with anxious steps, jumping at every noise, their faces hardened with fear and rage and doubt and haunting looks that Sula could not describe. They barely registered one another.

Sula was not sure if she shared these haggard looks, but she certainly felt preoccupied. Not too preoccupied to notice though that they had lost a party member.

She tried to think back. Corypheus… The Nightmare had just spoke to…

She turned around, eyes wide, and called out, “Hawke?”

The rest of the party looked up as though they had been awakened from a dream. They looked around to see where Hawke had gone, and Sera was the first to spot the Champion.

“Champ’s over there, frigging white as a ghost. Back behind. Shit, that specific creepy glowy rock, I suppose,” Sera’s voice was shaking and irritable. She waved a hand in the direction and walked ahead, head down and shoulders squared. Sula expected Blackwall to look after her in concern, but his eyes were downcast too. Only Loghain looked back in the direction of Hawke, with mild interest.

Sula sighed and followed the direction Sera had given.

When she found Hawke, she was shocked. Somehow, it didn’t occur to her that of all her companions, the most affected would be Hawke, who was sitting on a rock, completely ashen, tears looking like they were about to fall, but just couldn’t.

She wasn’t certain what to do. How does one comfort their heroes?

With a small cough, she approached. “Hawke?” she said, possibly too softly. “Hawke, are you alright? It was just the nightmare, its not… Corypheus is just trying to get inside your head, it’s not real.”

Hawke looked up at Sula, and that face, so confident and brave before the siege, looked both like a wounded child, and an ancient face that had lost too much. “You don’t understand. He’s right. He’s right about all of it.”

A shiver went up Sula’s spine. She tried to laugh it off, but the sound was breathy and empty. “No, he isn’t. And he’s only right about what we fear, like Loghain said. Loghain said those were already his thoughts, they aren’t true… How could they possibly be true?”

“I left them. I left them all behind. I left Carver. I left Bethany. I left mother and father. And now I’ve left Fenris. I’ve left the children,” Hawke looked sick, almost as though she were about to faint. Sula reached out for her, until her words hit her.

“Children?” she asked. She’d never heard that Hawke had children.

“I left them. I left them without a word. I left them without defenses. I thought I was saving them. I’ve never saved anything,” the last word was a sob. “I’ve failed everything.”

“No, no, Hawke. It’s not real. It’s the Fade. Don’t think of it. Push it away. We’ll save them all. We’re going to save them! Just like you saved them in Kirkwall. Don’t think of it,” Sula said, her voice reaching a panicked mania as Hawke’s shoulders shuddered, and she hid her face. “It’s the Fade! It’s some trick of the Fade! Solas!” Hawke was succumbing, to what, Maker knew, but it would not do. It could not do. “Solas!”

He came running with the rest of them, but Loghain got there first. He pushed passed Sula and the rest, and hoisted Hawke up on her feet, smacking her in the face. Hawke stared at him, but her eyes were far away.

“Soldier!” Loghain barked, and Hawke’s eyes flittered before focusing on his face, fear still etched in her tattooed features. “You are facing an army of demons. You do not have the luxury to weep. Fight on!” Slowly it seemed that Hawke began to recognize the face before her, and bitterness seeped in.

“I don’t think that’s necessary, Warden Loghain,” Sula began, but Hawke pushed him off, barking back.

“Don’t touch me. You may have been my commander once, but you gave up that privilege long ago.” Hawke spat on the ground, color returning to her face. But when she looked at Sula, the Inquisitor could still see the weariness in her clear blue eyes, the tears that could not fall. “Forgive me, Inquisitor. It will not happen again.”

With that, Hawke stormed ahead, Loghain rolling his eyes as he followed her. The Fade was wearing on them all, but it seemed that her own worries for her companions was wearing on her even more. Solas moved passed her, and Sera too without a word. She looked to Blackwall, feeling a slight weight in her chest, almost expecting the shy, desperate look he gave back to her. When he moved on ahead too without a word, she sighed.

She was alone.


	6. Anagapesis - The feeling when one no longer loves someone they once did.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sula's old flame and her meet up post trespasser.

It had been something of a lifetime since Sula had last seen Ashaad Two… That was foolish, he was the only Ashaad here. To think that he had left the world of the Valo-Kas behind as well, and sought out her Tal Vasoth and Vasoth sanctuary here in Kirkwall… She had to smile.

He stood a little ways away from her family as they greeted her—she’d been by a couple times now, the first time with her whole new family, but every time she came by it was all big family hugs, every pair of arms wanting a turn. Today was the first time she saw Ashaad there as well, though he did his best to hide. It was impressive, given that he was a good few inches taller than her 6 feet and three inches, and just as long limbed and gangly, but he managed well enough—all those years of training as a rogue served him well. As her family gave her space, and returned to their tasks at hand, she made her way over to Ashaad, who seemed to be trying to look busy, taking books out and immediately putting them back on the shelf. She laughed. She’d never known him to be anything less than cool, aloof, and collected—to see him so tense and nervous was like meeting a whole new person.

“Ashaad?” she said, and he turned, but still kept to his task. He seemed half way to trying to smile, but in their little time together, she’d never seen him smile, and she wasn’t expecting to now. She must’ve been on the verge of laughing because finally he rolled his eyes and put his arms to his side, returning to the stern figure she remembered from her younger days.

“Ada—Sula. Your father is insisting that I learn how to smile more, so I don’t frighten the residents…” he sound completely the same, and so different—once his low, aggressive tones would have sent her reeling, yearning, and wanting only to make him smile, just at her. Now, she smiled, nostalgia and affection filling her.

“And I’m sure you said smiling is a waste of time, right?” she teased, and he frowned.

“I would not say that…” then realization dawned on him, and his face fell as he groaned. “…I have said that, haven’t I?”

She laughed, a memory of a campfire, dancing, and Ashaad stomping away, refusing to indulge with her, seeming now more like a punchline rather than the hurt it had once been. But she understood Ashaad now. She’d never know what life had been like in the Qun, and she’d never understand his response to his escape—but she knew that he was tired, he was afraid, and he was learning, just as so many here were trying to do as well. And she knew that she had put too much into him, too many dreams, and things that he could not be, and she had been unfair. Now, she could just see Ashaad as someone she’d really like to get to know. She’d gotten very good at becoming reacquainted with the new identities of those she loved over the years.

“Maybe once or twice. But tell me, how have you been?” she reached for him, and he seemed shy of the touch, if mostly because he just noticed her missing arm. But he led her to a couple of chairs, looked her in the eyes, and finally, after having fought for it for so long, he smiled.

It was not the same victory she would have wanted long ago, but it was much better.


	7. Pining

Dreams were fickle things, and almost always he woke feeling more frustrated and tired than he did when he went to sleep. If he’d been a mage, perhaps he’d recognized the real culprit of tonight’s visions, and perhaps that would have helped deal with their lack of reality. As it was, he woke in the middle of the night, thinking about the Inquisitor’s amber eyes, grey freckled skin, and other grey, freckled parts of her…

His head hurt. He was too old for infatuations. Too old to pine in the early hours of the morning. Too old to want like this, heart pounding, aching all over for something that he knew could not be real. He’d told her as much, that it could not be, and he would stick to that, he would—it would just be infinitely easier if the rest of him would listen.

Now the question was, how to cope. This had happened a few different nights now, more since he’d told her that she couldn’t afford to think he was special, and he’d seen so clearly just how much she did think of him. Before, at Haven, it was just a suspicion, a light fancy, and he was certain it was all in his imagination. The only heart in danger was his, and he’d always known he was a fool. But the Herald of Andraste couldn’t possibly feel anything like that for him, no matter how many times he thought he might have caught her staring.

The trouble was, now that she was the Inquisitor, doubly important, doubly out of bounds, and more wonderful than ever (alive, she was alive, he’d almost broken when they had to leave her behind at Haven, and too much relief filled him when she came walking down from that mountain), she was also more direct. She told him she cared about him. She wanted him. That made wanting her back almost too much to bear. The first few nights that the dreams came to him, he dealt with it by drinking—an easier indulgence. You could forget shame in drink. But it was raining, the tavern likely closed at this hour, and the dream still too vivid.

It would be easy to indulge, to revisit and pretend, just for the night, that there could ever be a time when she did writhe beneath him and gasp his name in pleasure… If not for the horses, which suddenly gave a great cry. There was no thunder outside, nothing that should outrightly make them nervous.

Instinct told him to investigate, and frustration made him ready to fight whatever it was—pulling on a shirt and pants quickly, he hopped down the ladder and saw that the horses were still perturbed, and someone in the dark was trying to hush them frantically.

“Maker blast you all, I was just coming back, you don’t have to have a fucking fit,” the voice hissed.

It was too familiar, but the dream could have muddled his senses. Cautiously, he called out. “Inquisitor?”

She jumped, causing the horses to whine again. He patted one gently, and it began to settle as the Inquisitor scrambled up from the ground, soaked, unhappy, and… Limping.

“Are you alright, Inquisitor?” he said, trying to piece together the mystery of why she was here, in the dead of night, soaked, and limping. A thought flashed through that perhaps she was here to see him, to ask again why they could not be together… He might have changed his answer if that were the case, but she looked… Far too embarrassed for that to be. He almost had to laugh.

She tried to straighten up, but her shoulders sagged, and she sighed, clearly trying to figure out some way to say what had happened. “I just. I couldn’t sleep so I decided to go climbing around…”

“Climbing around? … The ramparts?”

She seemed to vaguely be hiding something, but in the time that he’d known her, he’d discovered she wasn’t the best liar, and she often would tell whatever she was keeping very quickly… “There’s a bit of hill I like… But yes. It started raining, and I figured I should get back, so I tried to climb back and…”

“You fell,” he said, half worried and half impressed.

“Not badly,” she said, gesturing to her left leg. “Just on one of the horses! They’re… Beasts, they’re fine.”

Finally, he did laugh, and she looked at him accusatorially, and he laughed more. “Let me help you, we probably need to check your foot,” he moved to reach for her, and she flinched. That was not a reaction he expected from her, and so his heart sank a little, but it was for the better. He had been feeling too warm, too safe, despite the rain. It would be better to feel the rain. But she took his hand soon after, and looked down at him apologetically.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” she said, low and sad and full of crushed hope. He hated it. He hated that all he wanted to do was kiss her, and chase all that sadness away.

“You aren’t,” he said, half a lie, but she could never really bother him. She leaned on him as they walked to his work desk, and he helped her sit on the bench, dashing away for a moment to grab his blanket for her. When he got back, he lit a fire to chase away the chill, and he noticed that she would not look at him.

He should have known that things would never be the same between them. That easy laughter, smiles just for him, were a thing of the past now that he’d ended something that hadn’t even begun. But it was better this way. Better to deal with the frustration of dreams rather than hurting the real thing.

But he did have to check her foot, an awkward enough moment without the tension of their nonrelationship in the way.

He knelt before her and shrugged, “May I, uh…” and she quickly obliged. He forgot that she’d had years with mercenaries, and checking each other for wounds must have been an every day occurrence with them. She didn’t seem as embarrassed at his touch as he was touching her, but the leg was fine. He told her as much, and quickly stood to give her room.

“Warm fire and rest should be enough to help that,” he said with a smile, though he felt as though it must have looked more like a grimace. She still looked away, and besides a small thank you, she did not say anything for a long time.

He looked around the barn for something, anything to distract them from this aching silence, the patter of the rain, and the crackle of the fire the only sounds, but she beat him to him.

“Aren’t… Aren’t you cold?” she said, and now he noticed that rather than not being able to look at him, she seemed to be trying very hard to not be tempted to. He looked down at himself, confused—he was just in a plain shirt he wore under his gambison, and loose pants. He supposed this was the most undressed anyone in the Inquisition had ever seen him. It had been a long time since he’d thought of propriety in regards to his dress.

“Ah… I will get my coat,” he said, moving to leave, but she shook her head frantically, and her face was red again.

“No, I only meant. If you’re cold, you should get warm, but I don’t… You don’t have to do anything to me!” she said very quickly, and then her face fell as she realized what she said. “For me! You don’t have to do anything for me… Maker, just be comfortable, I’m sorry…”

He chuckled, and she smiled, hiding her face in her hands. For a moment, it felt like before. And there was a warmth in his belly, not from the fire, but from realizing that she was not embarrassed at his undress… Just distracted. An easy thought to become intoxicated by, and he tried to push it away. Devious suggestions were making their way through his mind, but not wanting to encourage her (or mainly himself) he just smiled and kept quiet. That was the old lesson wasn’t it? If you don’t have anything decent to say…

“I should just go…” she said, and almost instantly he felt the cold. But he swallowed his disappointment and nodded.

“Do you… Do you need an escort?”

She laughed. “It’s just Skyhold.”

“It is raining… And,” he hadn’t meant to, but he gestured to her leg, teasingly.

She made a face. “You think I’m going to fall again?”

And it was easy to tease her with a shrug, smiling. She laughed, and he was lost. He was too far gone. He should not have offered to escort her, but all he wanted was more time with her. Just like this. Easy.

She smiled back at him, quietly watching him, looking for some answer, and he knew what she wanted to ask—if this is what he wanted, if he wanted to be easy with her, why turn her away? He wished beyond anything that he could tell her, tell her everything, explain why he was not the man she thought, that he was no good, that he could never endeavor to deserve her laughter and smiles, but if he told her, that was it. The end. The end of everything, of his life, of even the hope of those smiles. It was better… It was more bearable to think that she thought of him as worthy, while he knew the truth. Even though her amber eyes lit up in the rain like stars in the sky, even though she climbed the rafters to go to small hills she liked, and fell on horses, even though she smiled and made faces at him, just at him, sweet little looks that were inside jokes all their own. Even though she wanted him just as much as he wanted her.

Finally, she looked away, shrugging off his blanket and handing it back to him, shoulders tense, and fingers twitching in that way that meant she was dying to fiddle with something, anything to ease her anxiety.

“Thank you, Warden,” she said, and it was a clear wall. If he set it, she would not break it down, as much as they wanted. At least, that was what he thought, until she finished her sentence, “I’ll let you get back to bed.”

Her voice was low, her eyes flickered up at him, her lips parted gently, her face still flushed from the fire, and her blushing. Against the backdrop of the rain, she was a picture. He wasn’t sure any of this had been real for a moment, feeling as though he was still in his dream, and she had been gasping his name only a moment before. His real name though, not Blackwall.

She smiled, a small wicked thing that took the air from him, and dashed off into the night and rain, with only a slight limp. He must have stood there, gaping like an idiot for a good while, wondering to Andraste and the Maker how he would possibly be able to manage sleeping ever again.


	8. Logistics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleeping with horns is hard. Shameless fluff.

Sula supposed she didn’t remember actually falling asleep in his arms, or vice versa, ever. The last time, she supposed they fell asleep soon after… Everything, and she woke up alone. The next few times, she had to report back to the War Table, or head off on a mission. Now they were on a mission together, and she had suggested sharing a tent earlier. Only now did the logistics seem to actually spring to mind.

“Horns… Right,” she said, and she could see he was trying not to laugh.

“It’s really alright, my lady, I have my own tent,” he started, but the look she gave him really did make him laugh.

“I really thought it would work! We never get enough time together and… Well, I hope its not too much to say but,” ah, here it was, a golden opportunity to tease. She never got to tease. She lowered her voice and tried to make her face as sour and sad as possible, before looking up at him with a pout. “I’m very fond of you.”

He laughed, and dragged her forward for a kiss. This, this was what she was hoping for. Laughter, kisses, easy. But logistics. They were both fairly large people, and the tent only so big. And horns. She felt a knot in her stomach. Blackwall pulled away from her, looked about the tent, and sighed. “I suppose I don’t actually know how qunari sleep?”

She smacked him playfully. “Normally, really. The horns… Do get in the way, so. I suppose you’d have to go on the opposite side of them?”

The knot loosened when he smiled, “Sounds cozy.”

He started to settle in when she remembered the whole reason for sharing a tent, and blushed.

“Wait,” she said, suddenly doubting herself. He removed his shirt, and she really began to feel her face flush. So much was new, so much still confusing to her. But when he leaned forward to kiss her, chastely and gently, but somehow there was more, and it only gave her more questions. She pulled away. “Wait.”

“I’m waiting,” he said, and the teasing lilt was not missed.

“What. Are we doing? First?” she said, much too quickly, and he laughed.

“Well, I imagine,” he laid down, shrugging. “That you invited me into your tent, my lady, to conserve on canvas, a very limited resource. So, I suspect, we sleep, as we have an early morning tomorrow.”

His smile was playful, inviting, and his hands landed behind his head in a way that felt like a dare to Sula’s pounding heart. It was her turn to laugh, crouching atop him and leaning forward.

“Yes, canvas, resources. I do usually do a bit of strength training before bed though, if you wouldn’t mind helping me with that?”

“You usually do? On your own?” Blackwall said, his eyebrows raised. “I should hate to interrupt that, let me leave you to it,” he played at getting up, but she pushed him back down with a kiss. They were getting quite good at that part of a new relationship.

But she did have to stop him one last time to confirm. “So, sex, right? And then?”

At that, he laughed and laughed, holding her close.

Laughter, kisses, easy. The logistics came with the night.


	9. Tipsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunk fluff. That is all.

It was a warm and cozy night, laughter abounded, and drinks were plenty. Somehow Sula found herself alone with Blackwall as Sera left, chasing after some pretty serving girl, Iron Bull found himself lost in conversation with Dorian, and Varric… Who knew where Varric had run off to. But Sula and Blackwall were alone, still drinking, and the room, with roaring fires, and bodies everywhere, felt much warmer than perhaps it felt before. He’d told her weeks ago that they could not be together, but he was staring, leaning towards her, and their hands were close to one another’s, too close. She found herself giggling before she could stop herself.

“What?” he said, smiling widely, his eyes bright and twinkling. It made her giggle more. “What?” he pressed.

“I don’t know! I can’t stop,” she said through her laughter, putting her drink down and her hands to her face. It felt hot, like she was blushing, but she hoped not. A hiccup escaped her and she groaned, laughing more somehow through the sound. “Oooh nooo! I think. I think I drank too much.”

He laughed too, still staring, and he would not say anything, and she laughed more.

“Stop that!” she finally said, through hiccups and giggles, smacking him lightly on the arm. “You’re why I’m giggling! I can’t stop ‘til you do!”

“Why would I stop? I quite like your giggling,” he said, laughing too, somehow closer. _How did they get closer?_ It took everything in her not to lean forward, kiss him, his eyes shone so bright and just for her, and his lips…

She patted him away again, hiding behind her hands. “No, no, Ser Warden, I have to stop giggling, and you’re making me giggle, and I just won’t look at you, so there, Ser!” It was a solid plan, but she was still giggling, and his laugh was enough to send her into a new fit of giggles, its rumble lower and louder than ever several drinks in.

“I think I’ve been bested! Thrown from the top of my game,” he said, overly dramatically, hands silly and playful, and hers were in his, and his thumb stroked her fingers, and the ache she felt in her lips to kiss him was far too strong. “There’s no woman I’d rather be topped by,” he said, low and in her ear, and it was too much, it was perfect, it was… 

And it was over. Just as quickly as her hand had been in his and his lips at her ear, he was standing, his face bright red, and his eyes suddenly clear and their bright laughter gone.

“Blackwall? Are you alright?” Sula said, starting to get up, but he waved his hands at her, urging her to stay.

“Forgive me, Su—Inquisitor,” he said quickly, seeming to spin between drunkenness and sobriety. “I fear I’ve had too much. I should not have… Good night.” And with that he left, far too quickly. Iron Bull even called after him, questioning his early turn in.

But Sula just sat at their table, lost, hiccupping, and wishing he had not stopped.


	10. Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they gather their strength to take on the Western Approach with Hawke and Warden Loghain, Blackwall decides that it's time to try once more to tell Sula Adaar the truth.

He had tried before, but the words hadn’t come. She’d asked about the Warden Constable’s badge “Don’t you mean yours?” and he’d choked on the admission. He was going to tell her eventually, but now that they had met up with Hawke and Teryn Loghain of all people…

They were stopping back at Skyhold before heading out to the Western Approach. She had asked if the Calling was bothering him and he had covered just fine, but he hadn’t wanted to lie. It was just Hawke, Varric, Loghain, all of them there, it wasn’t the right time. But the right time was fast slipping away, and it would be better if she heard the truth from him, not…

Blackwall found her near the tavern, and her sweet, freckled face lit up at the sight of him. Her smile never failed to make him feel both like the good man he was trying to be, and like the worst of scum in Thedas. Today, he felt his stomach leaning heavily towards the second, a weight dragging through him. “My lady,” he said, and his words sounded hoarse. Weak.

Her smile faltered. “Is everything alright, Blackwall?” she reached for him, but he held up a hand to stop her.

“Everything is fine, my Lady, it’s just… Could I… I need to speak to you. Alone,” he hated this part. It was never easy, piecing together the right words to say exactly what he needed to. Too many thoughts ran together, crashing into one another, and the pounding of his heart drowned out all the proper ways to explain himself.

She smiled, though he could see that she was beginning to worry. “Of course. I have to talk to Cassandra quickly about… I’ll meet you soon,” she said, shaking her head. He wondered if she felt the same, and his heart ached to think that he made her feel confused and hurt once again. But he worried more for however she would react later. What hurt he would bring to her in only a moment.

But he nodded, forcing a smile. “Of course. Later then.” He quickly left to return to his place in the stables. He did not take a glance back at her, for fear of the look in her eyes. He remembered their first talk on the battlements, when he told her that they could not be together, and she had looked on the verge of tears, angry, confused, hurt. He was not looking forward to this conversation, but. It had to be done. He couldn’t hide it anymore.

It felt both like forever and not long at all when she finally arrived at the doorway of the stables, fiddling with her fingers in that nervous way that told him she would just love a pile of flowers in her hands to braid into some crown or necklace. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought, but his stomach sank too—she was nervous. But he pushed through the feeling to smile more broadly, to try and put her at ease. She smiled back, but did not look him in the eye long.

“You wanted to,” she sighed, balling her hands into fists and hiding them behind her. “You wanted to talk?”

He nodded towards her, inviting her closer. She bit her lip and followed him. They sat at his work desk, wood shavings and tools left behind from his anxious fidgeting. He took her hands in his, and he realized that when he first met her, he would have been surprised that this tall, gangly Qunari woman could tremble so. He knew better now.

“It’s nothing to fret about, Sula,” he whispered, and she looked up at him, surprised. “I’m not. I’m not going to end this. I couldn’t now,” he squeezed her hand with a smile, and breathed deeply. “But that’s precisely why I. Why I needed to speak with you.”

She was quiet, staring at him with big, expectant eyes. It was now or never.

And the words wouldn’t come.

Frustrated, he stood up, pacing away. Why was this so easy for others? Why could he not just look her in the eyes, and tell her, tell her everything?

Sula placed her hand on his shoulder, and he turned, seeing her eyes full of worry, adoration, more than he deserved. “You can tell me anything. I promise. I’ll help in any way I can,” she said, gentle and kind, and that was certainly so much more than a man like him could ever deserve.

He took her hands again, looking away. “I’m not. I’m not quite the man that you think I am, Sula, and I. I want to be deserving of you. I want to be worthy of you, and you. You deserve so much more than I could ever…” He was rambling, and she laughed. This was already turning into a mess.

“You are a good man, Blackwall. I’ve seen the good that you do. I don’t know what I deserve, but I choose you. I want you.” It was too much. He could’ve kissed her right then, but that would have distracted from the point.

“And I want you, Sula! I love you, but I,” he stopped, trying to search for the words, but Sula pulled him from his thoughts with a small intake of breath.

“You love me?”

It was such a simple question. So small and obvious to him, that he was stunned for a moment that it even was a question. But as he thought about it more, he realized that perhaps this was the first time that he’d ever thought it, and the first time he’d said it out loud. A part of him was disappointed he hadn’t waited until a better, more appropriate time. A part of him realized it had been a very, very long time since he had last told someone that he loved them. But the biggest feeling he felt right at the moment, was that time had stopped. Sula’s face was pink behind the gray, her eyes alight with wonder, and her lips right there, parted just so, waiting for him to prove it all to her. He repeated himself, quietly, and full of the exact same wonder, “I do. I love you, Sula. More than anything.”

“I love you too,” she said and it was small and all for him, and he couldn’t help the smile that overcame his face.

They leaned towards one another, but before their lips touched, he remembered what it was that they were talking about, and his heart sank. He pulled away, and tried to speak. “But that’s why…”

Until a cough at the stable entrance interrupted the moment. Sula let go of his hand, and jumped back, and Blackwall turned to see Loghain, standing there smug faced and questioning.

“Inquisitor. Warden Constable. I was just stopping by to inspect the Inquisition’s horses,” he left the sentence to trail off. Sula, her face reddish grey and covered by her hands, nodded at Loghain.

“Do you need a tour, Warden?” she said, her voice cracking in embarrassment.

Loghain shook his head. “I’m sure you have much business to attend to, Inquisitor. I’m certain that the Warden Constable can show me sufficiently enough.”

Blackwall scowled. He never had much of an opinion on the Fereldan Teryn, but he hated that even after ten years as a warden, that self-satisfied arrogance all nobles seemed to possess from birth hadn’t left Loghain.

Sula looked to him apologetically, and rushed out before he could have another word. He would have to find another time to tell her the truth. The air seemed to leave him as he watched her go and tried to think of when they would have another moment like this.

“So,” Loghain said, walking in as if he owned everything in his sights. “You and the Inquisitor, then.”

“What of it?” he growled, patience thin. It grew thinner still when Loghain laughed.

“As a Warden, you should know better. Petty dalliances are one thing, but a relationship could never last, not with the travel, the ever present danger, the looming threat of The Calling, always at the back of your mind. And with the Inquisitor too, who looms so large as a symbol, you can’t have thought that this would last, Warden Blackwall,” Loghain eyed him carefully, and Blackwall did not take kindly to the suspicion in those eyes. “How have you been dealing with The Calling, then?”

He knew where this line of questioning was going. He felt it like a piece of glass in his side, the sharp jabbing pain of his lie creeping up behind him. He stared Loghain dead in the eyes though, unwilling to let this man be the first to know the truth. He would tell Sula, he would. Whenever possible, he would, and he would be the one to tell her, no one else. “About as well as you, I imagine,” he said, low and threatening.

Loghain smirked, and shrugged his shoulders, apparently pleased with the answer. “Just so. I’ve seen what happens to fools in love. Take care that you know where your priorities lie.” With that he began to turn away.

Blackwall did not call after him, nor ask about Loghain’s original intention to inquire after the Inquisition’s horses. He stood, stewing in anger, at what specifically, he did not know. But all of his thoughts began swimming again, pounding against his skull, demanding to be heard, and he couldn’t voice any of them. With a suspicious Loghain, and the journey to the Western Approach ahead of them, he could not imagine a single moment when he could tell her the truth.

The anger bubbling inside him could not even produce rage. All that he could feel was an overwhelming, heavy and suffocating sense of guilt that he had been trying to escape for years


	11. Goin' Courtin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after. Well, let’s just say the day after that passionate make out on the stairs.

He was not there when she woke up. She’d panicked, but then thought perhaps that it was for the better… Maybe it wasn’t done, or he left to save them the trouble of rumors. _Or he regretted it. After all that was said, he regretted it._ She tried, she truly tried, to go through the morning thinking of anything else, but all through her meeting with her advisors at the war table, her thoughts lingered on the night before, and whether or not she should venture towards the barn.

She found herself doing idle errands and chores that took her progressively closer to the barn throughout the day. Finally, telling herself that she was checking on Dennett and the horses, and not going to talk to Blackwall, she did find herself at the barn, only to find that Dennett was not there. Luckily, neither was Blackwall. Never one too fond of the horses, though she’d become more accustomed to them with their time at Skyhold, she didn’t bother spending too much time admiring them. She walked down the halls of the barn, idly petting one, before starting to turn to leave through the barn’s front door. And there he was, just returning, quickly hiding something behind his back before she saw.

There was a seemingly endless period of quiet, before he smiled at her, and nodded towards the chairs by his worktable. “Care to sit?”

She nodded, following, trying to piece together what she wanted to say. _Why did you leave? Was… The night before… Satisfactory? Satisfactory? Maker, this is going to be a disaster,_ she thought, sitting, though in truth, she felt like bolting. Before he sat though, he shrugged and produced what was behind his back. A small, purple blossom, a type of flower she couldn’t place. But when he handed the flower to her, she took it delicately, and her heart pounded rapidly, all thoughts having floated away, consumed with the lovely little flower before her.

“Thank you,” she said, much quieter than she would have liked.

His voice betrayed his nerves. “You like it? There aren’t. Many around Skyhold, but I know. Well. Sera told me you like purple,” he said with a light laugh. “I thought, a lady like you, well… Ladies deserve flowers.”

“Nobodies ever gone out of their way and gotten me a flower before,” her voice was still too quiet for her liking, but she hoped that it conveyed her reverence, her joy. She really didn’t know what to do with it, it was so small and perfect. It felt a shame to put it down, or anywhere really. She had no idea what ladies did with flowers.

Another period of quiet, and when she looked up, his head shot up too, his mouth opening to speak just as hers did the same. They both laughed, turning away, and she felt a small flutter to see just the hint of a blush on his face. It seemed a bit ridiculous to think of him as embarrassed of anything, shy and awkward like they were in the midst of their first love. But she really felt lost for words. She was afraid that the wrong thing would push them right back to where they had started, a few months ago, with mutual pining, and an understanding that it could never be. But he broke the silence, and put her worries to rest.

“Well… It seemed the right thing to give a lady… That you’re courting,” he coughed, shyly, waving his hands, “Besides, it was no trouble. I left this morning to get it. And, of course, to… Well.”

“So you didn’t,” she spoke before she realized, and he looked at her, eyebrows raised, questioning. Biting her lip, she looked away, feeling foolish. “I was worried you left for another reason.”

“No,” he said with a reassuring smile, and took her hand that wasn’t holding the flower. “Just didn’t want to be caught by Lady Josephine or anyone. Worse, Leliana.”

They both laughed at the thought, and now she felt a bubble of excitement rise in her. If he hadn’t left due to regret, and if he said they were courting.

“I don’t know a lot about how… Humans do things, besides the books of course. But does that mean I could kiss you right now, if I liked?”

Roguish, that was the only way to describe the smile that he wore as he pulled her in for a kiss, and she felt the same—dangerous, excited, mischievous, absolutely oblivious to the world around as she deepened the kiss, sitting on his lap, until a horrible thing happened—

“Maker’s balls,” she could tell from the sound of scuffling feet that poor Dennett hadn’t _meant_ to return just then, and had just run away, but they broke their kiss and looked to where the poor man had been just a moment ago, and she was certain her face was bright red. But Blackwall just laughed, holding her tight, and so she joined him, laughing and holding him back.

“That was mostly what I was afraid of this morning,” he said, pausing to admire her in his arms. “Perhaps we should…”

“Be more careful?” she said, her voice low, and she felt surprisingly powerful, sensuous, more than ever, she thought.

“Or, here’s a thought… Go up to my cot?” his face fell for a moment, as though he doubted himself, “Unless that…”

She kissed him for an answer.


	12. The Herald Can't Be Pretty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on this great meta, that I guess doesn't exist anymore? But basically, at no point does the Herald actually introduce themselves as the Herald during Blackwall's intro scene. After recruiting Blackwall, he has some thoughts on the Inquisition’s team.

The Qunari (that was the right word, he thought, not ox) woman who had recruited him had been kind. They had even travelled together briefly before returning to Haven, and he had found her easy company. Pleasant, full of laughter, and an eager worker. To think that the Herald of Andraste was recruiting Qunari into her ranks was strange, but a good thought. It meant this was an institution that hopefully could change much of Thedas and restore peace to all. He liked that.

The elf girl, Sera, was also good company, and when they arrived at Haven, she immediately invited him to a drink. “It’s all on the Herald, anyway, innit?” she said, winking at their Qunari companion… Sula, she had said her name was. It was a nice name, matching a nice face. Freckles covered her blushing face, and her big yellow (amber perhaps?) eyes lighted with worry, teasing, and fun all in one.

Sula made a face at Sera, pursing her shapely lips together in feigned scorn, and shook her head. “That’s only in Haven. Eventually you’ll have to pay for something yourself, Sera. I can’t always foot the bill.”

“But you’re the glowy one! They should give you drinks for free,” Sera said with a laugh. It took only a few moments for the words “glowy one” to hit him, but Blackwall suddenly felt very stupid.

When Sula walked away, he rounded on Sera, “ _That’s_ the Herald of Andraste? Sula? The…” He didn’t want to finish the sentence.

Sera laughed right in his face. “We’ve been travelling all this time and you didn’t know? Yeah, what, you think everyone in the inquisition has a glowy hand?”

He hadn’t seen her hand. They had not encountered any rifts. There was no logical moment in their meeting that Sula… The Herald would have revealed herself. He felt a fool, glad to have been at least a bit respectful, but hoping he hadn’t said anything… He replayed the conversations in his head, but still, he could not remember. He would have to apologize or at least. Pay the proper respects.

She had seemed so ordinary, as ordinary as Qunari women go. Just a kind, pleasing face. A pleasing face full of freckles, amber eyes, and shapely lips. _That won’t do,_ he admonished himself. One can’t go around thinking that the Herald of Andraste herself was pretty.


	13. “Maker Let Her Still Breathe”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An important conversation cannot be avoided after returning from the Well of Sorrows. It’s gonna be angsty, folks.

Sula barely had a moment to process what they had just seen before they were rushed from the room with the Eluvian to the war room. Vaguely, she remembered hearing shouts of protest, arguments brewing around her, but everything was drowned out by the increasingly louder and louder hissing from the Well of Sorrows. She felt dizzy, sick with the sound of it, but she let Morrigan and Josephine take her arms and lead her away, still shaking from the Well.

Once in the war room, suddenly she could translate the words. She felt the meaning, felt the location of the Temple of Mythal, and they planned together the next step for the Inquisition. As soon as it was all done though, Sula wanted nothing more than to retreat to her room and pass out, the weight of the words rushing through her head putting a fierce ache throughout her body. Morrigan watched her carefully, seeming to want to speak to her, or study her, or something. But it would have to wait. Sula could barely stand.

But the rest of the world would not wait, and when the doors opened, Thom was there, half his armor gone, half still there, but the look in his eyes told her that he would not leave without talking to her. Cullen stepped in between them, looking to intervene, but Sula stopped him.

“It’s alright,” she said, surprised at how quiet her own voice sounded. Was it the other voices ringing throughout her mind that made it quiet or was it how tired she was. “Let’s go to the Inquisition chambers.”

Somewhere behind them, she heard Morrigan’s tutting, but she paid it no mind. She was certain what she did was the right thing, no matter Morrigan’s disappointment. It was hard to stay so certain as the hissing grew louder still, but she would sleep and wake with new resolve. She hoped.

Thom took the lead, clearly troubled, but would not speak to her until they were alone in her room. She was worried, but mostly worried that she would not be able to convince him that nothing was wrong, that everything was fine. She was having a hard enough time convincing herself. But all that went out the window when instead of saying anything at all, Thom simply took her in his arms, holding her tighter than she’d ever been held. Worst of all, he was shaking more than she was.

It was awhile before she found her voice, even though she still wasn’t sure what to say, “Thom, I…”

“I can’t,” he started, hugging tighter still, and her heart sank even before all the words were out. “I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

 _Maker let her still breathe,_ she remembered now. It had all gotten lost in the heat of the moment, but she remembered that she had woken up, in his arms, after drinking from the well. Everything in between was darkness. Had she… Had she been lost?

She didn’t know what to say, so she just hugged back, trying her best to be there. But all of a sudden, he pulled away, looking her in the eyes, trying to find some answer. She hoped she could give it.

“Why?” he asked quietly, and she could sense he was trying not to sound accusatory, but it wasn’t working. “The witch wanted to drink from it. Why didn’t you let her?”

Her head hurt so much. She wished that she were more present in this moment, more aware, but the hissing made the world spin in front of her, and she couldn’t stand much longer. She wanted to seem strong, capable, as if nothing were wrong. But the world went dark again for a moment, and suddenly, Thom had helped her to sit on the bed, the look on his face breaking her heart. She tried to smile, but it did nothing to assuage either of their fears.

“I don’t know why I didn’t let her. But. I could hear it. I could hear its danger,” she rested her head in her palms, unable to keep her eyes open, but not wanting to stop trying to explain herself. She had hoped her palms would be cold and soothing, but all of her skin was fire. “I couldn’t let someone else take on danger when I could help. I couldn’t.”

His hand was on her back, trying to be soothing and gentle, but he was still shaking. When he spoke next, his voice sounded sad, though he tried to laugh. “That is why I love you. But just once, I’d wish you’d be a bit more selfish.”

She smiled too, and looked up at him. His face looked haggard, tired, as though he’d seen a ghost. She couldn’t think of how she would have felt had their situations been switched, but she supposed that just a year ago, that was exactly where they were, and she would wake desperately hoping that Thom would not throw his life away after working so hard to be good. She sat up, and took his face in her hands, and kissed him, gently, but when his lips hit hers, a ferocity sparked between them, and he kissed her as though it were the last time. She wanted to cry, to think that there would ever be a last time.

She pulled away, and found that she was crying. “I’m sorry. I didn’t. I didn’t mean.”

He shook his head, holding her tightly, kissing away her tears. “No, you don’t need to be sorry. You were just being the hero you are. You were right, just.” Another kiss, and she did not want it to end. As aching and dizzy as she was, this kiss was all that kept her still on this side of the Veil, all that kept the voices and hissing at bay. When he did pull away, he stayed close, and the feel of him was enough to keep her safe, to keep her still real. “You brought me back. I know the world needs saving, but. Please don’t sacrifice yourself for it. I need you, and you deserve… So much more than that.”

They lay together silently for awhile, not sure what else to say after one nearly dies absorbing the wisdom of an ancient elven goddess. It just felt good to present, to be near, and to be silent while the world still spun reckless and loud outside. The hissing seemed to stop while they lay together too.

He’d ask a question and she’d do her best to answer, but all in all the evening ended quietly. But from then on, they did not worry about appearances, and stayed in the same bed every night.


	14. It Takes Everything From You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The healing moments after Trespasser’s end.

After her speech to the Exalted Council, Sula had walked confidently to the doors of the Winter Palace, as though the last hours of battle and hardship, the loss of both her arm and her horns, barely were trifles. But beyond the doors, her closest companions saw the truth. She collapsed into Rainier’s arms, and Dorian hurried them all away to his room. Rainier had been tired from battle too, and though he did not want to let go of Sula, Bull kindly took her from him, carrying her gently and with ease. Sera walked with Thom, as they tried to hurry after the group to Dorian’s room, though they could not walk as fast.

Vivienne was there already, having vetted a doctor, assuring them that the healer was serving no one else in secret. She was tired too though. It was as though the three of them shared a weight between them, a boulder that they all had to carry together from now on—the image of Sula’s mark eating away her arm while they cut and their hero, their inquisitor, his love, screaming.

They tried to pass along as much information as they could to their other companions, but they did not have the first hand knowledge that Sula did. Solas was involved, they all knew that, and somehow, he was the new threat that they all must defeat, now not as the Inquisition. It was still hard to think of the small, elf man, so careful with his words, so deft with cards, and so quiet, as any sort of threat to them. But if he was responsible for Sula’s current state, it would not be hard for Thom to summon up hatred for him. With the ache in his muscles, and the pounding of worry in his head, hatred and suspicion were easy emotions to summon up.

The healer made swift work of Sula, with Iron Bull’s help for the horns. She had no idea how to treat such a wound, but Bull was familiar with the procedure, producing a balm that closed off the open blood vessels to infection. Thom felt foolish—he never thought her horns could come off, or be hurt. It had been what, five years now, and it never occurred to him that blood could come from them, could pour over her face as the Saarebas…

The healer came to the three of them next, himself, Sera, and Vivienne, who had been with her in this final battle. Why did it feel final? The Inquisition was disbanded, but there was no end. Sula had said so herself, and yet…

He hoped it was the end for them. He hoped that she would not lose so much more. _It takes everything from you,_ he’d heard that said to Sula so many times, but he supposed it did not mean as much to him as it did for her. He only saw the results of the taking. The pain he felt looking at her, seeming so much smaller than he knew her to be, older, as though Solas had taken years of her life from her, not just flesh and blood and bone. He could only imagine how it all hung in her heart, knowing that his was falling to the pit of his stomach with dread just to look at her.

The healer spoke to him, and he must have looked surprised because she patiently repeated herself, “You need rest, just as much as the Inquisitor. You three have been through a lot today, and need to recover. Shall we escort you to…”

The Iron Bull was the only one who laughed. “I think, Doc, that we’re all going to be holed up here for the day, if that’s alright with you.” Thom was grateful, even felt himself smiling up at Bull. If the Iron Bull winked back knowingly, he could not quite tell from the eyepatch, but he was sure that they were together in this. He would not leave Sula’s side.

“I’m afraid that we might have other errands to attend to, Bull,” Dorian said, and though his tone conveyed a performed irritation, there was none in his face. Just worry, like the rest of them. “But we’ll be in and out. We just… Have to deal with the Exalted Council. And prepare for whatever war Sula’s gotten us all in now…”

“Dorian, darling, you don’t have to participate if you don’t want to. It is only saving the world from our ex-compatriot, now, isn’t it? It is not as if we do not all owe her our very lives, or anything,” Vivienne, however, did seem genuinely annoyed, and the cool exterior she had until they had left the Exalted Council’s room had disappeared. He’d seen her in battle. He’d seen her stand still and furious at that Eluvian, knowing her magic could not activate it, but still trying to reach Sula. He’d seen her after, as Sula was dying from the mark, and he and Sera panicked. That magic sword had cut quick, and he was certain that as he carried Sula back through the mirrors they had come through, Vivienne had done some sort of magic to help his weary arms carry their charge.

He’d been cruel to Vivienne many years ago, and though they never would be friends, he did feel guilty for the way he treated her. He had tried to make up for it, and he was certain that Vivienne did not care one way or another. But looking at her now, he realized how much she cared for Sula. Looking at her now, he realized he’d been wrong every step of the way about her.

Vivienne glanced his way, and the look that flashed through her eyes seemed to be one of understanding. If a small smile or a nod tried to make themselves visible on her face, they did not appear for long enough to register. Rather, she stood up quickly, and marched to the door of the room.

“The only rest I’ll find is in work. Dorian, if we have the game to play, so be it. You’ll need every bit of arsenal you can muster,” she said quickly, and for a moment, she looked about to cry, but it was only a moment. She opened the door and was ready to leave with a stunned and peeved Dorian behind her, but he had to, he had to say it at least once.

“Madame… Vivienne? Thank you,” his voice was quieter than he had anticipated, but his words carried across the room enough to have her pause. She did smile now, small and sad, but full of more meaning than she possibly could have wanted to say. _Take care of her. By the Maker, take care of her, or you’ll have me to deal with._ She departed quickly, with Dorian on her heels.

Bull nodded gently at Sera and Thom, “I’ll take care of her if she needs help, but you two. You have to rest too. Cole’s still here, and Varric will be up here shortly, probably along with the rest of our merry crew. I can even send the Chargers to check in. But you gotta rest, alright? The Iron Bull’s orders!” He winked again, and stomped off after Dorian and Vivienne. Sera and Thom exchanged a look. Tired, though they were, with deep dark circles under their eyes, and cuts and bruises all over, they knew that neither of them would rest while Sula was still unconscious and needed attending. Cole hovered over the two of them nervously, trying to piece together their unspoken communication.

“Don’t forget, I can help too,” he said quietly, and Thom smiled at him.

“Thank you, Cole. You can help by…” he started, but didn’t know how to finish the request. He mostly wanted Cole gone, but in a kind way. Sera picked up for him.

“Food please,” she said, also smiling at Cole. “Water too, I think. Something. My throat’s all awful feeling.”

Cole brightened at that. “Maryden suggests tea with honey for throat troubles.” He smiled at the both of them, and began to leave, but not before whispering in his way, just to Thom. “She’s safe. She breathes. She will not go out like a flame. She’s safe.” The door closed so quietly behind Cole, that Thom wasn’t sure that the young man had even left. Even now, year later, his cryptic whispers left Thom feeling cold and warm all at the same time.

It was just them now, Sera, Sula, and Thom. It felt right this way, but Thom looked to Sera, whose eyes were drifting closed, and knew that though they’d volunteered themselves for this vigil, eventually their own exhaustion would betray them. He wanted Sera to know that it would be alright to sleep, but she grabbed a book from a shelf and began doodling in it to keep herself awake.

“What are you drawing?” he found himself asking, trying to remember when they were supposed to switch out Sula’s bandages and salves.

“Different ways to kill Solas,” Sera said, feigning a blasé attitude, but from the way she scratched at the paper, he could tell she was agitated, trying to use the scritching sounds of the charcoal to keep herself awake, aware, and unafraid of whatever the future may hold. He didn’t blame her for it.

“What’re you thinking?” he asked mostly to make conversation. He quickly found himself walking to Sula’s side, sitting on the bed next to her, and trying not to touch… He wanted to reach out for her, hold her in some way, heal her in ways he could not, but he feared too that any touch would aggravate her injuries. Just being closer was enough for now. Closer, he could hear her breathing, shallow as it was. It was enough.

“Arrows don’t seem enough. I think we oughta try and find that dragon again. Maybe it’ll feel like it owes us a favor, since we saved it and all.”

He laughed, surprised he was even able to. But Sera often had that effect. “Sula does have a way with them.”

She was quiet for so long, that Thom thought Sera must have fallen asleep. But when he turned to check, she was staring at the two of them, looking close to crying.

“What does it all mean? The Inquisition disbanding? I mean. I know Sula said she’d be a Jenny, and that she wanted to. So you two could be. Yeah,” her lip trembled a bit, and he was surprised he’d never really given much thought to how young Sera was. She was still almost a child, while all the rest of them were getting old. “Disbanding’s not as bad as… Changing. Frig, I can’t.” Sera got up, throwing her papers down, walking over to the bed, and taking Sula’s remaining hand in her own. “Don’t give up on us, alright? We’ve got world saving to do, and we need you. I need you, Widdle needs you, I don’t need to tell you that Beardy needs you, but we need you like you. Not.” She seemed to lose the will to keep talking then. Biting her lip, she turned to Thom, “I can’t sit here any longer, I’m sorry, Beardy. If you need me, I’m with Widdle, but. Don’t. Don’t get sad and wallow, and don’t let her, alright? Sadness and wallowing… I think that’s what makes. Frig, forget it. You know what I’m saying.”

As she left, he could hear her cracked voice through the door, as she whimpered to herself, “And everything was gonna be good. Please still be good.”

Sula’s hand lay closer to him now. Thinking on Sera’s words, he took it, softly and delicately, fearing bringing more harm to her, and kissed it. He repeated Sera’s words to himself, hoping for the same. When her fingers squeezed his back, he looked up, his heart pounding fast.

She looked beyond tired, beyond exhaustion, like a phantom of herself, but she smiled at him all the same. It was a beautiful smile, and he leaned closer to her, hoping he had not fallen asleep, and this was all a trick of the Fade. But her skin was warm, too warm, still feverish, and clammy to the touch, and when he leaned his head to hers, she winced, laughing a breathy, uneasy laugh. She was as real as ever.

“I think,” she said, each word a test. “As much as I’d like to be near you and kiss you.” Another wheezed breath. “I might not be able to just yet.”

“You used up all your strength telling off the Exalted Council. I’m not surprised you need more rest. The look Leliana gave alone,” he said, happy that laughter was easy, now that Sula was awake and well. It wouldn’t be for long, he figured, and he couldn’t place the wetness at his eyes, but she wasn’t lost. She would not be lost. Things would be good.

“Good,” Sula said, as forcefully as her aching voice would allow. “She’ll be… She’ll be.”

Thom finished for her. “She’ll only be sore awhile. She’s already forgiven you for not supporting her as Divine. She’s a woman of action. Saving the world takes precedence over a political grudge.”

Sula nodded, smiling, though he could see that she was fighting against sleep. She opened her mouth to speak more, but he shushed her gently, kissing her hand again. It was the only thing he could touch and not hurt her more.

“Planning will come. We’ll be prepared for tomorrow, whatever it brings. Happiness or war, we’ll see it together. But today, you have to get better. Rest, my love,” the smile she gave him at that last word filled his heart with hope, warm and big and strong. She took her hand from his to touch his face, trailing her fingers through the increasing gray of his hair. He knew every word he said was a promise, and he knew that she felt that promise too. They would see tomorrow together, and fight whatever demons Solas could throw their way.

“Stay with me,” she said, a whisper.

“To the ends of Thedas and back,” he answered. He thought of staying awake, standing guard over her as she slept, but the pillows beside her were very inviting. She even nodded towards them as a hint to join her in restful slumber, and the weight of the day urged him down. Hand in hand, they had fought today. Hand in hand, they slept now. Tomorrow. Tomorrow would bring much, but in the end, he knew, so long as he had her, so long as she had her Inquisition, whatever it may look like now, tomorrow would be good.


	15. Hold onto Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Trespasser, fears still lingers.

“I’m afraid…” Sula had almost been asleep when she heard Thom whisper so quietly she wasn’t quite sure she hadn’t just dreamed it. She opened her eyes and saw that he was sitting up, looking away into the dark. Biting her lip, she sat up and leaned towards him. He did not look at her.

A memory flashed to another dark room, years and years ago, and he didn’t look at her then too, his eyes filled with a different sort of fear than was there now. Her heart fluttered, a worry that had been hanging between them for months now threatening to come out in the open.

It had been a year since the Inquisition disbanded, a year, and now four months, when a happy accident became apparent. But that year had been full of work, travel, fighting… It wasn’t the best time or place to bring a child into the world. But Sula didn’t want to worry… She just wanted to hold onto what happiness she could before Solas tried to take it all away. And he was visiting her dreams more and more, threatening it every day. She knew that Thom must have worried too, but he never said anything, always trusting her, always following her lead…

She took his hand in hers and he finally tore away from the darkness, looking at their fingers entwining, and she kissed those fingers silently, before nuzzling near.

“I am too,” she said, and the words were much quieter than she had wanted them to be.

She was surprised when he laughed. “Why must we always be so afraid to lose each other?”

She smiled, though it didn’t feel good. “I think that’s supposed to be love, Thom.”

He smiled too, and kissed her, and that felt a bit better. But the fear was still hanging in the darkness. It hissed like the voices from the Well of Sorrows, and felt like the ice grip that took her when Mythal forced her way into Sula’s bones.

They were silent for a long time, holding one another in the dark, unable to name the feeling in the room. At some point they must have fallen asleep, for the next thing Sula saw was Solas’s long, sad face in the fade.

“He’s afraid,” was all the Dread Wolf said, compassion filling his face.

“It’s hard not to be,” Sula said, her anger having cooled to frustration long ago.


	16. mint, eglantine, tansy, umbrella sedge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt on flower meanings.  
> Mint—let us be friends again
> 
> Eglantine—A wound to heal, Spring, Poetry
> 
> Tansy—Resistance
> 
> Umbrella Sedge—Home  
> This did have art with it, seen here: https://hobgoblinsandpeachfuzz.tumblr.com/post/179740374442/dai-mint-eglantine-tansy-umbrella-sedge  
> Post Trespasser

He was late to the dreams tonight. Perhaps that meant they were drawing to a close. She wondered if she looked as tired as he did, sitting on the ruins of his home, while she dreamt of her newly built one.

“I am eager for this to be over,” he said, trying to laugh.

“You didn’t have to visit,” she answered. Over would mean one of them would be dead. She wouldn’t let him forget.

It stung, like she hoped it would. He was easier to read these days. He really was tired. She must’ve been too, “Cruelty doesn’t suit you, Sula.”

“I wish I could say the same about you. I’m not really sure I ever could.”

It was raining in their dreams—it had to be the soft pitter patter she heard on the windows of Varric’s mansion in Kirkwall, but if it was raining for Solas as well, she wondered how close that meant he really was.

“But we were friends once, yes?” he sounded quiet, contemplative. He always did. It had started to grate on her nerves long, long ago.

“Maybe. But you always wanted me dead. You wanted all of us dead.”

He didn’t answer. She didn’t think he could.

So they sat in silence.

The final dream.

The sun began to peek over the horizon on both their ends. He stood, walked over, and helped her up. She’d already given birth in the waking world, but the dreams seemed to have not caught up—or maybe this is how she wanted him to see her. Maybe she wanted him to know precisely what he was killing and what she was fighting for.

He smiled, strained, maybe sad, but if it was real he would have stopped by now. “Good luck, my friend.”

She wasn’t sure what to do. Looking out to the horizon, she tried to summon up cruelty, hurt, anger, but all of it was so far away, so lost in the absolute numb fear she truly felt. So she shrugged. “I guess you too. If it comes to that, I hope it was worth it for you. And that you can live with it.”

“I think you know as well as I do that even with all that pain and guilt and fury, too much is far too livable.”


	17. Conflicted Gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Briala and Gaspard ended up on the losing side of the peace talks at the Winter Palace two-three years ago, but have a bigger role to play in the war to come. Post-Trespasser headcanon, basically. I wrote this after reading Masked Empire, and wanted more story.

The Most Holy Nightingale, Briala mused, had the nerve to contact her three years after denying her her peace at Halamshiral. She had heard that The Most Holy Nightingale’s Inquisition had disbanded. The Inquisition had offered her resources, food, aid, even more valuable, information, after the events at Halamshiral, supporting the Ambassador of Elves in secret, and for that, Briala was. Conflicted in her gratitude.

She had no reason to think that the Inquisition was not simply covering their bases. She had no reason to truly trust the Qunari Inquisitor, the one who pardoned a traitor, the one who played at Godhood, no matter what she said in private.

And yet, when an elf she did not know arrived among her people, she did not strike out at her immediately as they had been doing (spies were an increasingly common problem for her people. New zealots, seeking out her key to the eluvians. She still had it, and she would not let it out of her sights.) The elf introduced herself as Charter, in perfect Orlesian, an astute study of the Game, it was clear in her manners, but she made no such attempts here.

“The Divine wishes to speak with you. Not at the Sunburst Throne, but with the Inquisition” Charter had told her. And though Felassan had taught her to question, to never trust, she had to wonder at this new Most Holy Nightingale and her disbanded Inquisition.

The meeting place was some far away fishing village on the Storm Coast, far from anything of value, in a small inn. The first sign that it was a trick was that Gaspard de Chalons was there, also disguised and hidden, though she’d recognize that horrible arrogance in his stride anywhere. Celene’s arrogance had at least been more graceful. He did not recognize her at all, which served her well, and it was Charter who met with her, a small touch and a finger to her lips.

“Ambassadors don’t get recognized here, but still,” the blonde elven woman said with a small smile.

Briala looked to where Gaspard had been sitting, only to see that he was joined by a similarly cloaked individual. They all sat, obviously leaving at separate times, as should be done. Charter’s look told her they were to leave first.

“Are we not meeting here?” she asked, knowing the answer, but wanting to ask all the same, to test Charter’s reaction.

There was none, a smart move. “There’s a more private area none too far. Although, we’ll have to blindfold you. If you don’t mind, Ambassador, I’ll be your guide.”

Briala consented, though a quick flick of her cloak clued her people nearby to keep a close eye. Or at least, it should. If the Most Holy Nightingale was anything like they said, her own people would have intercepted Briala’s. It was something she had thought of, and tried to prepare for, but now with Gaspard in the mix, there were other pieces to move and shuffle.

The blindfold was swift, and Charter easily lifted her onto the back of a horse. It was all an illusion, as Briala could hear. They barely went up a hill. She knew Gaspard would be aware of the ruse as well, a seasoned soldier as he was, and had to wonder at the purpose the illusion served at all. Certainly whatever base there was would easily be found at a later date. They had made no effort to hide the village, which was enough for Gaspard to utilize and destroy at a moment’s notice. Something more must have been going on. Perhaps he owed the Inquisition in some strange way, like she felt she owed them too.

Her blindfold was only removed once inside, and her eyes quickly adjusted to the dark. It was a small hovel. A basement, perhaps, built into the cliff sides of the Coast, of… Some grand house, some castle, it could not be known. All basements really looked the same, though as she looked more and more it was wood. Likely a mansion then, she figured, though… It seemed small. Cramped even. A moment later, and a body was bumped carelessly against hers.

Gaspard snorted, clearly amused by the whole process, as the cloaked woman with him removed his blindfold. His eyes took longer to process, but when they did, he looked down and smiled far too warmly at her. “Ah, Ambassador Briala? I should have known you’d be involved in this strangeness. I had the personal pleasure of the Divine herself capturing me, so the day can only go up from here, as far as I’m concerned.”

Briala’s head snapped to look as the other cloaked woman removed her hood. Indeed it was Divine Victoria herself, pale, red-headed, and deadly, hardly the look of a Holy Figure. She smirked at Briala, holding her head aloft.

“We’ve no time for shocked looks, Ambassador. Don’t you know? The world is about to end? Isn’t that right, Inquisitor?”

Briala and Gaspard turned in tandem to see Inquisitor Adaar, not even just a few feet ahead, standing by a small table covered in maps and papers. Briala had heard of what had happened at the Exalted Council, that the Inquisitor had claimed a Qunari invasion, that she had disbanded the Inquisition in rage, claiming another war to be fought, and all of the rumors suggested madness, over exaggeration. Her people had mentioned battle scars. She did not anticipate the exhaustion, the lack of horns, the darkened eyes that seemed so much more world-weary than the bright and eager young woman she had met at Halamshiral. She did not anticipate the gash slashed across her freckles, and the grey that had seeped into the black of her hair.

These were all signs of war, yes, but could also be madness. But the truest sign of war, the thing that shook Briala, was the arm that had held that magic mark, the only thing capable of closing the rifts, was gone completely. She kept her guard up, and waited for the Inquisitor to speak first, but something itched at the back of her head. It felt awfully like worry.

Of course, Gaspard could never be one to not take the lead. “Inquisitor Adaar? Maker, you look properly blooded. Was this all from the battle with Corypheus or is it the Exalted March and your qunari? It’s so hard to keep track of what’s destroying the world all the way in Nevarra.”

“Your home in Nevarra is a gift from the Inquisition. I figured you’d have understood that, what with the Pentaghast coat of arms painted everywhere, but if you want to talk idly and play the Game, be my guest. But we no longer have room for titles here, nor the Game. There’s more at stake than you could possibly know,” Adaar’s words were harsher, swifter, and her voice lower. There was a slight edge to it that Briala could not place, but it was not from the gravity of the situation. A quick up and down revealed more than her battle scars. Her knuckles were white on the edge of the table, and she shook slightly, though she tried to hide it. She pocketed this information away for later. If the world really was at stake, perhaps the Inquisitor was in no position to save it yet again.

As the Inquisitor began to speak again, Briala took note of another body in the room, farther, trying to hide, arms crossed, and eyes glaring daggers specifically at Gaspard. If her knowledge of rumors was anything to go by, this could be none other than the traitor, Thom Rainier. She knew they were lovers, but thought it odd that he would be present at such a discussion. He did not seem one for strategy. Another fact to unpack later, she thought, as her attention drifted back to the Inquisitor, who leaned heavily on the table.

“I’ve let you both live for a purpose. I believe in Briala’s cause, and I believe that you did nothing but vie for power at the absolute worst time. You’re a soldier, Gaspard, and soldiers are what we need right now. And you’re a spy, with a multitude of elves at your disposal. While Celene keeps order in Orlais, she is too watched. You two exist on the fringe of society–.”

“Where you put us,” Gaspard added, bitterly, though he wore the customary smile of any Orlesian Noble adept at the Game.

“Which is what we need to fight this enemy…”

The Most Holy Nightingale took over, “I know you are a city elf, Briala, but are you familiar with stories of the eluvians… Or more importantly, the Dread Wolf?”

The look the four of the Inquisition gave seemed to suggest they expected someone to laugh, particularly Gaspard. But Gaspard looked to her, expectation in his eyes. The memory of their battle in that separate world between the mirrors echoed between them.

She sighed, and approached the table. “I know of the Dread Wolf. I… Had a Dalish teacher who told me a great deal of all elven lore.”

“More than they really should of known? As if they were really there in Arlathan?”

Briala paused. She had not planned to tell them much here tonight. It was never her way. But that sounded so much like Felassan, for a moment, she was breathless.

“He. He gave that impression.”

Here, Adaar’s voice grew soft, gentle, more understanding than she thought possible from a woman who loomed so large. “Any information you can give us is a life or death sentence here, Briala. I don’t want to endanger your cause. Believe me when I say that nothing means more to me than justice for your people. I want justice for all of our people. I want our people to live, really live. And that cannot be achieved without your full cooperation.”

Somehow, she looked to Gaspard, worried more for his knowledge of the eluvians’ continued existence than this Inquisition’s, small and unorganized as it seemed. But he was nothing, and he was in on the plan. She could control Gaspard, the Nightingale could control Gaspard. But what was Adaar’s angle? Who did she want to control?

“I did not know much about my teacher, but he was as you describe… Years ago, he showed us the Eluvians, how to use them. A demon gave us access. Imshael. From what I’ve heard, Michel de Chevin killed him.”

Adaar smiled, a memory seemingly flicking through her. She saw that same smile in Rainier. So they helped? “And do you still have access to the eluvians?”

Here was where the truth had to come out. And it would, in part. “They are for my people. They are for the elves, can, and will only be used by them. Gaspard can attest to this.”

Gaspard shrugged. “I would not fight her on this, Inquisitor. I’ve been through those eluvians of theirs. Painful, wretched business. They cannot be helpful here.”

“I’ve been through them too,” Adaar said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I promise you, they are for your people, and always will be. But the Dread Wolf is coming for your eluvians, and will take them from you. That is why I’ve called you here.”

The Dread Wolf, that fabled hero from stories she admired so? To think of him as real was like thinking that one would ever see the Maker in the flesh. Absurd and strange, and yet.

She thought of Felassan and his dark eyes, searching for something that seemed so close, and so far. She thought of his dream states, his fear in their final farewell. Briala had lived a long life. She had seen the world beyond those mirrors, faced demons and sylvans, had her heart broken by a Queen, and had seen a hole rip through the sky.

“If you remember, we had a companion with us, at Halamshiral, an elf of an unassuming nature, an expert on the Fade, Solas,” Divine Victoria began, filling the silence. “According to the Inquisitor, Solas was in, as your people know it, a magical sleep called–.”

“Uthernara, yes, I know,” Briala said. The Divine nodded.

“The Evanuris that the Dalish worship were in fact ordinary politicians raised to godhood, powerful mages that enacted Solas’s rage by killing one of their own. As punishment, our friend, Solas, also known as Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, raised the Veil. The Qunari somehow found access to the eluvians and used it to try and dismantle all the important political entities at Halamshiral, and through the eluvians I found Solas, killing their leaders, and declaring his intentions. His goal is to bring down the Veil to restore Arlathan of old, not for us, not for you, but for the rest of his folk deep in Uthernara. However, he has told elves all over the lie that he works for them. Within your ranks right now–.”

“Yes, I know. We’ve seen them,” Briala said, quietly, thinking back to the spies that had begun to infiltrate her people, thinking back on the Dalish who had refused and denied her and her friend, thinking back on how foolish the separation between the elves truly was. It was a wild story, but Briala was beginning to believe the Inquisitor. “And they seek?”

“To take the eluvians back. To destroy you, along with the rest of Thedas, to restore a dead world. It’s a simple plan, but as I’m sure you must be aware, the Dread Wolf is anything but simple,” Adaar said. “So you can see why I need people like you on our side.”

Briala nodded solemnly. It was a lot to believe, but she’d seen enough to know it was better to plan for every turn, and this was turn far beyond her worst fears. “You have my aid, Inquisitor. But of course, beyond our lives, I have to work for more than that. Is there anything you can guarantee?”

“That is where I come in,” the Divine said, smiling warmly, a look that did not seem to fit her attitude. “I have pledged to make many reforms, as you are aware, Briala. And I will not allow them to fall to the way side or be fought against. I will fight for your elves, Briala. For we are all the Maker’s children.”

Briala nodded, though her heart was guarded. She had trusted human women with similar beliefs before. At least Adaar was not human. Briala had not yet been betrayed by a Qunari.

“That’s all very well,” Gaspard said, “Briala and her elves make sense for this war, but you have not given me much to fight for other than simply living. And what have I to live for, Inquisitor? True you have given me shelter in some hole in Nevarra, but you have taken my title, my destiny. My power. What can I possibly offer in this war?”

The man in the corner, Rainier, groaned audibly. It was almost embarrassing, a shocking turn from the Game, where such displeasure would have been more subtlely displayed. Gaspard, in turn, laughed that booming laugh that carried through battalions and ballrooms alike.

“And what do you have to say, Serah? I’m not even sure I know what your role here is? Are you the Inquisitor’s bodyguard? You seem familiar, but I cannot place your particular scowl.”

“All I have to say is that you’re right, Gaspard. You have nothing to offer us, and would have better served the world dead. You should be grateful for the Inquisitor’s mercy,” Rainier snarled, bitterness filling the air like a palpable weight.

“Ah… I’m not so good with faces, Serah, but I think the name is coming back to me. You should be grateful for the Inquisitor’s mercy as well, I think, no, Rainier? Why. I’m honor bound to kill you where you stand.”

Rainier lunged forward, fury in his eyes. “Honor bound? You snake. You have no honor.”

Briala rolled her eyes. “You are quite mistaken, Ser, for all his faults, Gaspard is full to the brim with honor. What good it does a man is another question.”

The Divine laughed at that, but the two men had not stopped glaring, intent on their pissing contest. From behind them, Briala noticed Adaar take a few shaky steps back, and grew concerned.

“Enough!” she shouted, and suddenly Charter was at her side, holding her arm. Rainier turned fast to reach for her other arm, the one without the mark, and Adaar shook them both away, moving back towards the table, and leaning heavily again on it. Adaar was weak, it was clear, though she was struggling to hide it. It could not still be injuries incurred at the Exalted Council, that was nearly two months ago… Perhaps only a month. Although, Briala supposed the trauma from losing a limb was great indeed, on top of losing horns as well. But it was not just her shakiness, her white knuckles, gaunt face… The worst of it was in her eyes, strained and tired, as though something was plaguing her from the inside out. Almost like how Celene, Michel, and Gaspard had looked in the world in between the eluvians, like a magic light shone too brightly and too harshly, clouding their worlds. Was there something more to the Inquisitor than they knew? She always suspected there must be, but she never thought it would be more magic. She thought it probably ended at the tender look of worry Rainier gave as the Inquisitor began to speak again. “Whatever we were before is gone. But we have much to offer for the future, if there is to be one. Gaspard. You are a great soldier and a commander, now with the added benefit of shame and banishment. No one would ever suspect you now, if you simply decided to start a small school. A training facility.”

At Gaspard’s look of shocked indignation, Briala took over, seeing where the Inquisitor was going. “It would not have to be for training Chevaliers. I know honor precludes you. But a small force that no one could think of as an army at a time.”

Adaar smiled at her, and Gaspard drew back, nodding with increasing understanding.

“You would be a General in secret, Gaspard. You might not be Emperor, but what was that empire for but to fight in glorious battle once again? And what more glorious a battle than the fate of all of Thedas?” Adaar told him, smiling that winning smile Briala remembered from their first meeting at Halamshiral. She was untrained, but a natural, Briala thought, instinctually hiding the grin that she felt within her.

After a small moment of thought, Gaspard laughed triumphantly. “I suppose that would be the best fight of all? To fight an elven god? If you supply the men, I will train them.”

Adaar smiled again, and the Divine matched it. “We have several teams prepared to send your way, Gaspard,” the Most Holy Nightingale said, handing some papers to Gaspard. “And as for you, Briala, I know you come prepared, but Charter has some people of her own who specialize in counter-espionage that perhaps you could use. And of course, any information, or access to the eluvians…”

“Is yours, by way of me and my people. On our terms, Inquisitor,” Briala said, with a slight smile. Adaar nodded at her in return.

“Is there more to the strategy?” Gaspard asked, frustrated. “I’d like to know all the details of what we’re to face.”

“So would we,” Rainier said, and a gentle hand from the Inquisitor silenced him quickly.

“Not today, I’m afraid. It is too dangerous to stay too close and in one location for too long. Our communications will be conducted through these crystals a friend of ours has procured for us. Safer than letters at the moment. This was simply a meeting to assure us all who our friends are. Once there is more information, we will contact you,” the Divine said, as Charter passed the crystals to Briala and Gaspard. Gaspard eyed his with faint interest and suspicion, while Briala tried to hide her eagerness. This would help her cause greatly, if they could mass-produce these crystals. But those were thoughts for tomorrow. This moment was apparently farewell.

“Thank you for meeting with us, and trusting us. Stay safe, stay sharp, and may the Maker or whatever gods you choose, watch over you,” Adaar said quietly, and without much warning, the blindfolds covered their eyes yet again.

It wasn’t until they had ridden much farther than the fisherman’s town they had started their day in, left off at a major port city, that Briala and Gaspard were unblindfolded, in a inn far from their people and their contacts. Gaspard laughed, as was his nature. There was no sign of their guides, the blonde elf named Charter and the Divine herself. Briala almost wanted to laugh herself.

“Who would believe that we have found ourselves in each other’s company yet again, Briala?” Gaspard said with a sigh. “And now recruited into the ranks of the Inquisition? What a world.”

She did not voice her worries to Gaspard. It would seem too much like they were friends, a thought that made her slightly ill. But she did smile.

“And to think, the Inquisitor in her state,” he said, waving down a server to bring them something to eat. He adapted so easily, and she was still focused on trying to find her way back to her people. She must have contacts here, though few and far between.

“Yes, after the battles she has fought, and what she has lost. It is a miracle she still stands,” Briala said, idly, trying to keep Gaspard in this friendly mood. If he made conversation, he didn’t ask questions. It suited her better.

“No, no, Briala! Don’t tell me you of all people did not notice?” Gaspard said, laughing his booming laugh once again. People glanced their way, but their cloaks did not place them as anyone of importance, even if his swagger and laughter certainly drew unnecessary attention to Gaspard. However, what he said puzzled her. She had noticed Adaar’s weakness, her exhaustion, her plagued eyes. She had not missed anything.

Gaspard laughed again, clearly pleased that for once in his life, he had outmaneuvered an opponent in the one battlefield he’d never quite managed. “Briala, the Inquisitor is pregnant! Early still, could lose it, but I’ve seen it enough in soldiers, my wife, whores, and noble whores, it’s always the same. That glow, even through exhaustion. The shakiness, the swooning. It takes different symptoms on occasion, but there’s always one thing a man notices that I thought you certainly couldn’t have missed.”

Briala frowned. Pregnant? She’d seen it herself in alienages, in servants, in soldiers, and nobles. Certainly there were similarities, but nothing that couldn’t also have been symptomatic of something else, such a trauma. There was nothing to indicate pregnancy alone, unless Gaspard was just that crude to assume something of the sort… Which, he had the capacity to be. But what on earth could he be talking about?

Her puzzlement only exacerbated his amusement, and he almost bent over in laughter, but still Orlesian, it never would come to that. “Briala, my dear, they are practically eye level with you! Her breasts, my dear, are far larger than I recall. And while I am no good at faces,” he laughed at his own joke, tipping the server as he took his drink and sipped idly.

Looking back, it fit. The pieces came together in her mind, and it was a perfect picture.

“How she’ll ever manage to save the world and cope for nine months, is beyond me,” Gaspard voiced her thoughts aloud, and she had to agree.

But she’d seen the world beyond those mirrors, faced demons and sylvans, had her heart broken by a Queen, and had seen a hole rip through the sky.

Why shouldn’t a pregnant Qunari save the world from the Dread Wolf?


	18. Jenny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Trespasser. Kidfic? Yeah, kidfic.

He hadn’t expected this when the blacksmith had told him Sula was with Surgeon. He had raced to Surgeon’s house, barged in, and rather than disaster, there was a knowing smile from Surgeon, and a bright, eager one from Sula. She’d stumbled over telling him, too happy to put the words right, but with each stumble it became clearer.

_They were going to be a family. They were having a baby._

Perhaps they’d stayed holding each other in Surgeon’s house too long, but the next thing he remembered was laughing and crying as Surgeon pushed them out her door, and walking back to their cottage with Sula hand in hand.

—

6 months, and the worry was beginning to set in. They had just returned from Tevinter of all places (he had told her that they should not go, let Cassandra and Leliana’s spies find their hero to defeat Solas, but she insisted), and now they were home, waiting, waiting for word from the spies, waiting for the next task to do (from home, he insisted again and again, but Sula just waved her hands at him dismissively), waiting for the baby, waiting to fail.

Every day he tried to push those thoughts away, but somehow they always found their way back to the front of his mind. He was Thom Rainier, the man who sold out his soldiers, killed an entire family in cold blood, he was still that man, he had still lied, pretended to be another man, pretended to be a good man, was he still pretending? Every night he went to sleep, the thoughts growing louder in his dreams. Did he even deserve this kind of happiness? But no, he was trying to stay positive, stay focused, for her, while she puzzled over maps, strategies, while every day he saw her move slower, pressed her hand against her forehead when she thought he wasn’t looking… She wasn’t telling him something crucial, and that too was troubling him. If she couldn’t tell him what ailed her, how could he think to keep a family together?

But she noticed. She always did. One night, while he was in one of his darker moods, carving idly outdoors, away from her, she found him, came to him, and sat with him without saying a word. It was quiet for awhile, before he finally gave in, and put his carving away.

“If you tell me what’s bothering you, I’ll tell you what’s bothering me. Fair?”

She looked surprised. “What do you mean? Nothing is,” but she stopped, when he gave her a look, and crossed his arms. She sighed, and nodded. “Fine. The Well of Sorrows voices again.”

His heart sank. He hated this, problems he could not fix with a word or an action. All he could do was take her hand and listen, when he wanted to find the bastards who created this nonsensical magic and… When he wanted to do more, anything.

“How long have they been…?” he asked, his voice suddenly hoarse.

“They’ve been getting steadily louder since Tevinter,” she said, shrugging. She always took it in stride, somehow.

“I thought that they were better, after,” he nodded quietly to her left arm, and she laughed.

“For awhile,” she said, smiling. There was more, he could tell, her smile was small, shy, and her eyes were focused away at the clouds rather than him. Much to his surprise though, she looked at him, her eyes full of worry, and her smile gone, and told him. “With them… They’ve been getting worse because I’ve been having dreams. Solas talks with me in the Fade.”

“Solas? You mean, you dream about him, or… He talks with you, directly?” He had no idea how to protect her from this. But she seemed less worried and more… Weary and heartbroken. He held her hand for a moment, and she squeezed tightly.

“We talk. He tells me nothing, I tell him nothing, but he seems to want to talk. I didn’t tell anyone else because I thought it was inconsequential. I wouldn’t let him know our plans. But, I think he might have something to do with the Well. They get louder after every dream.”

“Sula, what does that even mean? What can we…” he was panicking now, and stood up, pacing. In the days before the Inquisition, there were only natural disasters, darkspawn, bullies, to protect one’s family from—now he could barely save his wife from an elven god infiltrating her mind. He tried over and over to put words to his worries, but nothing came, just mounting fear, an icy terror clutching at his heart, the thoughts growing louder still.

Sula reached for him, stopping him in his pacing, and her face mirrored his own fears. “Thom… I don’t know what it will mean. But I have it under control for now. We’ll figure it out as it comes, but… Thom, what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” he was shouting, and he did not want to be, but it was out of his control now. “Sula, you’re pregnant, AND there’s an elven god trying to kill the entire world, AND he happens to have access to your mind? Solas, the bastard, is trying to take everything from us, for his stupid lies, and… Sula, he can’t take you away from me, he can’t take our family away from me, and he won’t even have to try because I probably don’t deserve this anyway! Maybe this is just what was always meant to happen, to punish me for my sins.”

She stood with him, taking him in her arms, kissing him, and only then did he realize he was crying. He almost had to laugh, feeling utterly ridiculous, but she held him tighter, and under the fabric of her cloths, under the skin of her growing belly, he felt a kick. They pulled away from one another, and stared at her belly, surprised.

Sula broke the silence with a laugh. “See? Even little Forsythia thinks you’re being foolish!”

He laughed too, wiping a tear away. “I never agreed to Forsythia.”

They sat back down on their bench behind their cottage. They looked out at the view they shared of the sky over the sea, the sun setting in deep purples, pinks, and oranges. He was still shaking, still overcome with the intensity of his confession. But saying it made him realize, those were the worries of a man long gone. He and Sula had a life together. She continually chose to have a life with him. Chose to have a family, a cottage, a view of a sunset over the sea with him. He deserved this. He did not need her to tell him that.

But as she took his hand in hers, and squeezed, he knew she would always remind him when he forgot. And he would not let Solas take this from him, not even if he would have to go into the Fade again himself to stop him.

—

“She’s so small,” he said, laughing and crying as he held the little pink and gray child in his hands. His child. Their child.

She was everything. She was smaller than his forearm, fitting so close to him, it was as if she was always meant to have been there. She was crying, shrill and tiny, but her voice was a joy to his ears, a defiant cry against the dying world outside this room. She would always be defiant, she would always fight. She was a Rainier, after all.

This small thing, crying, wriggling, pink and gray, tiny fists opening and closing with fingers, new and strange, a little tuft of black curls delicately stretched across her head, was a Rainier. The thought brought more laughter and more tears.

“Let me see,” Sula said, her voice weak and small, but laughing too. He moved slowly to her side, and he felt perhaps that he’d never stop smiling.

“I’m afraid I can’t give her up. I don’t know if I can share,” he said, and Sula giggled, sweetly, and he swore their little girl (Their little girl!) had the exact same smooth and smoky voice that her mother had.

“No fair,” she said, though she would not part them for the world.

It was Surgeon who finally said that he had to give their little girl back to Sula. That did not mean he would not sit with them on the bed, staring at the two of them, and touching them, and smiling at them, as much as possible. In Sula’s arms, the two of them looked perfect. Their little girl’s skin was just a shade pinker and lighter than her mother’s, their hair the same dark, dark black, but with his curl. Slowly, the baby stopped crying, and opened her eyes up at the world for the first time.

Blue. They were blue, the bluest blue Thom had ever seen.

“I’ve never seen anything so perfect,” he whispered, and Sula kissed him.

“We need a name,” she said, and he was certain that drenched in sweat, her face tired and ashy, that she looked more beautiful than he’d ever seen. “I like Gwyneth. For your mother?”

His revelry was broken only for a moment, touched that Sula had even thought to suggest it. Her sure smile, warm, bright, and bigger than he’d ever seen, convinced him though that it was her wish too. He looked back down at their little girl, and the whole world ceased to exist when she looked back up at him, blue eyes, and oh no, the biggest eyebrows, but that same, big and hopeful look her mother always had.

“Gwyneth. We can call her Jenny for short. Sera’ll like that,” he said, and no one could ever take this moment from him.


	19. A Kiss in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt, taking place during my dragon age 4 dnd campaign with friends, post Trespasser.

It is the last night in Antiva before they head off on their separate tasks. They’d just come from Tevinter a week back, setting the stage for all that needed to be done there, leaving it in the reliable hands of Dorian and his motley crew. Leliana had even stayed to assure that recruits were gathered and loyal. They traveled to Josephine’s estate to rest, confer with her, and begin the next leg of their journeys. Unfortunately, that meant Thom had to leave Sula behind.

“I don’t know why I can’t go with you,” she whispers in the dark of this strange room and strange bed—beautiful and luxurious, of course, it is Josephine’s home after all, but still it is not their home, and it is not their bed. The smells drifting in from the open window are the fragrant notes of jasmine and manicured lawns, not pine and sea salt air like their cottage. Everything is just a bit too soft for his bones, getting on in years, and he’s sore in ways he doesn’t want to admit as he holds his wife closer, and kisses her shoulder.

He places a hand on her belly as an answer, growing steady now, an attempt at teasing, but he wishes she could come with him too. “You can do more work for us organizing. You still have to travel, but Josephine has set that up for you, straight to Kirkwall to rendezvous with Varric and the others. You have to keep yourself safe too, love. We need you.”

She grasps his hand on her belly and squeezes, before turning to face him. He can only see the outline of her face, and the subtle yellow of her eyes, but the intensity of her gaze does not escape him. “Who will keep you safe?”

“I’ll be fi–.”

“ _I_ need you.” Her voice shakes more than he thought it would. There’s so much he doesn’t understand about this war. It’s all cloaks and daggers, whispers, barters, and gossip, not unlike the Orlesian Court, but the world literally lies in the balance of it all. And worse still, a part of it is being fought deeply inside her, and he cannot save her from it. He feels weak. Pitiful. But right now, Sula, so strong, always so dependable, needs the same from him. Maker help him, she is his hero, and he can be that for her.

He pulls her face to his, and kisses her gently—for all their time together, he has not kissed her nearly enough. It still comes as a surprise, how soft and shy she can kiss him when they have seen each other at one another’s lowest and highest hours. He longs for the day where each touch, each kiss is totally memorized. He tries to commit this one to memory. It might be one of the last… Hopefully, for only awhile.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers into her lips, and kisses away the tears that fall.


End file.
